moodybluemoon

[moodybluemoon]

pretty like the sun

warning: lots of self loathing, misogyny (not from any of the drivers) but i think that’s it 👉🏼👈🏼

words: 2.5k

lando norris x fem!reader

there's always been something unspoken between you and lando, at least, that's how he feels. it's something he notices whenever he gets nervous around you, how every lingering touch leaves him wanting more. it's overwhelming, really, the urge to hold you close, to be more than just your friend.

something that started out as a little crush when charles first introduced you, but morphed into something deeper during the last two years. something that keeps him up at night, thoughts of you constantly on his mind, like you're a breath of fresh air he longs to take in.

sometimes, he allows himself to think you might feel it too. like when you rush to sit next to him during press conferences, not like he'd let anyone else sit there anyway, or when he's one of the first people you run to after getting on the podium.

sometimes, he likes to think it's not just in his head.

……

he tries not to let it get to him as he watches you playfully chuck an empty water bottle at charles, who dramatically acts like you've hurt him. you're both laughing when he places his cap over your head and pulls it over your eyes. lando forces himself to turn away and focus on the conversation in front of him, attempting, but failing to ignore the pang in his chest. meanwhile he completely misses the way your eyes fleet over to him.

''are you missing your boy?'' charles teases from behind you when he catches your stare. ''he's not my boy,'' you retort quickly, ignoring the butterflies forming at the way charles referred to him. within minutes, you find yourself standing behind lando in the papaya-colored garage, willing to wait while he chats with an engineer. the guy nudges him though, as soon as he spots you.

''you've come to spy on us?'' he jokes before leaving you two some privacy, shooting lando a knowing look, one you don't see.

''what's up?'' he says, because it's the only thing his brain comes up with. he spends nights awake in bed, thinking of cool things to say to you, ways to impress you, but when you actually stand in front of him, it's like his mind goes blank.

it never seems to come easy to him, he's not like charles.

charles knows how to make you laugh, effortlessly. lando remembers your first grand-prix win, how charles carried you around on his shoulders, celebrating your win. he seems to light up a room with his presence, just like you, meanwhile lando is left in the shadows, admiring you.

thankfully, you don't seem to notice his inner turmoil, and you quickly dissipate his tension. ''this is so awkward, i actually did come over here to spy on you guys.''

''yeah?'' he replies, visibly more relaxed, ''brought your notebook and everything?'' he decides to keep it to himself that if you really did ask, he'd likely spill all their strategies.

…..

it becomes painfully clear to him that he's in too deep, when he drops everything the moment your text lights up his phone, wanting him to catch a movie with you.

''i've decided you're coming with me''

''that so? what if i've got plans?'' he's teasing of course, there's no way he'd ever say no to you.

''you'll just have to cancel them??? obviously'' you're joking too, but you're unaware that he really does have plans with friends, and that he cancels on them without a second thought.

after the movie, you're walking around the city, evening warmth wrapping around you like a comforting blanket. it's the kind of warmth that doesn't require closeness, but, without thinking, you link your arm through his.

it's so familiar, being close with you. lando knows your an affectionate person, he knows. but you're telling him about your day, burrowing your face into his shirt, making his heart race in a way he hopes you don't notice. he's convinced himself that he can never really have this, have you, but being with you like this, casually intimate, is everything he wants, craves.

there's no way you don't feel it, right?

....

you struggle to keep your eyes open as you're sitting next to charles, this being the fourth interview in a row. the bright lights and constant questions start blurring together when the reporter leans in, asking what is presumably his final question.

''so, obviously i need to ask this. there've been quite a few photos of you looking quite cozy with another driver,'' he says, his tone accusing, ''do you care to confirm or deny any rumors?''

it's obvious the question is directed at you. the press had been speculating for weeks at this point, headlines calling you all sorts of names, claiming it was only a matter of time til you'd start 'hopping around'. gossip pages were lapping it up, happy to have something on you.

you open your mouth to speak, but before you're able to say anything, charles leans forward with a playful grin. ''well, i mean, yes, but things between me and pierre are much too fresh to talk about. he is very handsome, and a great friend, but i'm not sure if i like him that way, yet''

you stifle a laugh, thankful for charles‘ quick wit, and it seems to shut the reporter up, but you know it won't be the last question you'll be asked surrounding this topic.

…

you've been pulling away from him lately, he's not stupid. he goes through withdrawal after a day away from you, and now it's been weeks that you've avoided him. it physically pains him, and it doesn't seem to help that you seem to cling to charles whenever he sees you.

now he's alone in his hotel room, and sleep doesn't come easy. the others persistently asked him to go out with them, with max telling him he'd be missing out. he figures he'll be fine missing out on watching you with charles.

a soft sound interrupts the silence then, he thinks he's imagining it, it's so quiet. but it comes again, a gentle tap at the door, and he's surprised to find you on the other side of it, dressed in your pyjamas.

''can i stay with you?'' you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

he wants to pull you into his arms immediately, desperate to make the sadness in your eyes disappear, desperate to make it all okay.

''you didn't go with them?'' he asks softly, before gently pulling you inside. you're shaking your head and quietly say ''charlie said you wouldn't be there.''

the implication lingers heavy between you, and he wants to ask you what you mean, wants to ask why you've been pulling away if that's how you feel, but this is the most you've spoken to him in weeks, and he‘s scared it’ll push you away.

you awkwardly stand in the room, like you're waiting for him to tell you what to do, and he hates it. it feels like everything you had is gone, like you're strangers.

he sits down on the bed, inviting you to sit next to him, your movements stiff. he only speaks up again once you're by his side, hoping to soften the mood.

''seems like they're having fun without us, did you see carlos' story?'' he expects you to laugh, assuming you've seen the video of charles doing the limbo, george cheering him on, but you don't.

''no, uhm, i just deactivated all my social media.'' you're picking your nails, something he knows you do when you're nervous. ''why'd you do that?'' he asks, quietly.

you shrug, pulling on a piece of skin, when he places his arms around you, taking both of your hands in his. it's a gesture that says 'talk to me', and it makes your throat tighten, tears threatening to spill as you realize how much you've missed him lately.

''it just got too much, needed a break,'' you say, voice trembling and lando sighs. it's well known how much frustrated fans love to take out their anger on you, being the only woman on the track. it's something he's always wanted to shield you from, protect you from their mean words.

he also doesn't know that it's currently his own fans targeting you. calling you a distraction, branding you a slut and sending you death threats fueled by jealousy, all because of some rumors. he doesn't know, because he doesn't get the same treatment as you, none of the drivers do.

he gently tightens his grip on your hands, and tears begin to spill. you hate feeling so vulnerable, but his soft cooing assures you that it’s okay, and that he’s here for you.

you have no idea how much it means to him that you turned to him.

''they don't know you.'' he reassures you, ''it's okay that you need a break from it, and if you'll let me, i'll be there for you, always. but you have to know that whatever they're saying doesn't define any part of you.'' he shifts slightly to make you more comfortable, firmly pulling you into his chest. it only takes a few minutes for you to drift off, tears dried on your cheeks. once he's certain you're asleep, he turns off the light, pulls a blanket over you both, and allows himself to place a kiss to the top of your head, whispering ''goodnight, baby.''

he hardly closes his eyes all night, content simply to feel you in his arms, yet it's the best sleep he's had in weeks.

..

he’s drunk, no he’s hammered. it’s charles‘ birthday, and though he didn’t feel like coming, how could he resist your pleading eyes, your ‘but it’s charlie’s birthday‘?

but now he’s sitting across from you, and you’re next to charlie, and if it was difficult seeing you two on the paddock, then he needs a whole new word for whatever this is.

the night you spent in his hotel room seems so far away now, and though he’s never seen himself as a possessive person, what he feels now is more than jealousy. suddenly, the sight of you so close with someone else feels unbearable and he can’t shake the urge to pull you away.

so, before he does something dumb, he does something dumber. he heads to the bar and downs shot after shot, chasing the numb feeling it provides him. it makes it worse though, it’s like he can’t see anything but you.

he pushes through the crowd, feeling like the walls are closing in on him. the bass from the music thumps in his chest, but fades once he reaches the balcony.

he only realises you’re behind him when you speak up. “are you okay, lan?“ he wants to say no. he wants to be mad at you, because why are you making him feel so confused? but he can’t be mad at you, he‘s convinced he’s incapable of raising his voice at you.

so he asks, because he’s sure he’s going to wake up tomorrow with a headache either way. and because for his sanity, he needs to know.

,,why can't you just like me?'' it comes out a little whiny, and the look in your eyes lets him know you didn’t expect this question.

unsure how he means it, you furrow your brows, but your heart is pounding. “you’re one of my best friends, lan. of course i like you.“

he goes to shake his head in disagreement, wincing when the movement makes him dizzy. “s‘not what i mean,“ he mumbles, resting his head against the wall. his eyes flutter shut, sad little pout forming on his lips, and it pains you to see him this way.

„why can’t you like me the way i like you?“ there’s a heavy vulnerability lacing his voice, and you want to say something, anything. yet no words come out.

„it hurts so much, to see you with him,“ he blurts out then, his voice raw. „i mean, this, us, this can’t just be in my head, right?“ he gestures between you two.

“lan, it’s not like that with charles. he’s my teammate, one of my beat friends.“ desperation creeps into your voice, as the weight of the moment finally dawns on you, “he’s not you, i‘m- it’s not just in your head.“

and for a moment, lando lets himself believe everything he’s wanted for the past two years is about to come true. but he sees the look in your eyes, and he knows you’re not finished.

„do you know the kind of questions i‘ve been asked lately?“ he stays silent, waiting for you to continue, “it’s like I’m constantly fighting to prove my worth, and it‘s draining me.“ you inhale shakily, trying to steady your trembling hands. “every interview, every conference, half my questions are about you. and I’m used to criticism. but not this- your fangirls sending me messages, handing me letters, telling me to kill myself, to stay away from you.“ tears stream down your face, and your voice cracks as you go on.

“i‘m the only woman on the grid, lando. i have to constantly try to be better than everyone else just to be seen. and now- everything I’ve worked for is overshadowed by this. like i’m an extension of you, when nothings even happened yet.“

The weight of your words presses down on him, and he realises how much this has affected you too.

“i didn’t know they were saying those things to you, im so sorry. i wish i could protect you from all of it,“ he says, stepping closer to cup your face in his hands. you let him, feeling the warmth of his palms grounding you.

„but please don’t shut me out, please. i can’t lose you, not when i never really had you.“ there’s tears running down his face too now, “i just want to love you.“ you look up into his eyes, and let the gravity of his words sink in.

he loves you.

“lando, please don‘t say that.“ you whisper, your heart aching at the sincerity in his gaze.

“why not?“ he pleads, not paying any mind to how desperate he sounds.

„i can’t risk everything ive worked for my whole life,“ your hands go to hold onto his wrists.

“i can’t be what you want me to be, not right now.“ you step back, his hands falling from your face. there’s an „im sorry“ before you go back inside, he doesn’t really hear it.

.

you’re long gone, already in your room. he’s still on the balcony, leaning against the wall, in the same space you’ve left him. after a while, oscar comes to get him, asking no questions as he drives him back to the hotel.

he’s awake in bed once again, and now, on the other side of the hotel, so are you.

when you close your eyes, there’s only one thing on your mind.

„i just want to love you.“

[moodybluemoon]

RIP Matthew Perry

No one else could’ve played Chandler Bing🩵

[moodybluemoon]

It breaks my heart how this site will shout and scream, fighting against homophobia, transphobia, racism and antifeminism but the second the talk is about an Arab, or lbr an Islamic, country going through ANY kind of oppression, unjust war, sanctions, even fucking natural disasters, the silence is deafening.

When the 6th of February earthquake happened, there were only posts about the Turkish side of this disaster, how to help them, how to stand by them. Three Syrian governorates were also hit and lives were also lost and Syrians also needed help and aid, maybe even more than their fellow Turkish because of the fact that the Aleppo area that was affected by the earthquake was already ravaged by war.

And yet, silence.

A few weeks ago, a flood wiped out an entire village in Libya and the dead and missing toll due to it was over 20k.

Silence.

The earthquake in Morocco prior to that.

Silence.

The Syrian civil war, that erupted in 2011, kept on going for long fucking 7 years causing us lives, homes, livelihood and so much fucking more. Then the aftermath of it all, for the last 5 years, that’s kept us not only under a dictatorship that reeks of corruption and oppression but also unjust sanctions that have led to poverty, famine, displacement and so much fucking more.

Silence.

The Palestinians have been suffering under the Israeli occupation, oppression and monstrosity for over 50 years but only now we see everybody’s eager to take a side and have something to say because they finally got a chance to retaliate and Israelis had a microscopic fucking taste of their own venomous medicine.

It’s just sad. How marginalized we are as a nation is sad. How our lives matter so little to the western world. How we’re seen as people in perpetual states of war and poverty and therefore, it’s become the norm that we’re always dying and suffering to the point where i feel the world has been desensitized to it.

As Muslims, as Arabs, as “minorities”, we’re meant to suffer. We’re less than human. We’re uncivilized. We’re underdeveloped. We’re terrorists.

We simply don’t matter.

How cruel, unfair and unkind.

[moodybluemoon]

ocean in a seashell . ( rooster )

pairing ; bradley bradshaw x female!reader

synopsis ; bradley has lived with his father’s ghost for long enough to know he’ll never make the same mistakes he did. and then he meets you.

wc ; 10.5k i'm sorry

warnings ; 18+ only, minors do NOT interact; bradley bradshaw's sad, sad life; angst, literally SO much angst; mentions of canon past character death; near-death experience; alcohol abuse; explicit language; explicit sexual content (breeding kink, cumplay, p in v, dirty talk, fingering, idk?)

note: ... yeah i don't fucking know either goodbye. stole the title from "sidelines" by phoebe bridgers aka god.

sol. sunderlust... none of this would be possible without you, thank you forever.

Bradley doesn’t remember much about his father.

These days, he recalls him only in fractions: Hawaiian shirts, mustache, hair that stood up spikey like grass covered in the first tentative November frost. He had big hands, Bradley remembers that, and he used to swing him up on his shoulders and let him ride around living rooms in Army commissioned houses they never stayed in longer than a few months. He always smelled of engine oil, and he played pianos like he didn’t even know the meaning of the word embarrassment.

Bradley based his whole life on the fading glimpses of that man he carries locked in the chambers of his heart. The older he gets, the more gaps he finds.

Suddenly he’s taller than Goose ever was, older, ranked higher. He wants to say, wait, hold on, go back. Wants to rewind to a time when he felt closer to his father, when he could remember what his voice sounded like, what it felt like when he tucked him into bed. When he thought if he just sat by the front door long enough, his father would inevitably walk through it again, hoist him into the air, and press tickling kisses to his cheeks.

Sometimes, Bradley wishes he could go back to when he thought bad things happened only in movies. When he had a father and a mother and an uncle and the bone-deep, unconscious conviction that things would always stay this way.

He can’t remember the day Goose died. Can’t remember Mav coming to the house, can’t remember the dog tags pressed into his mother’s hands. Strange how the most significant day of his little life remains in his memory as just another day - morning cartoons and PB&J sandwiches and his mom reading him a bedtime story. Part of Bradley thinks it’s unfair, his whole world crashing down and him not even remembering it. Like he’s arriving late for a movie and can’t make sense of the plot.

Not once did he see his mother cry over his father. He’s sure she must have shed tears, remembers now the empty tissue boxes and the eyes rimmed in red, understands now what he was too young to see then. But Carol carried her grief like a secret. She locked it behind the mahogany of her bedroom door, she hid it behind the veneer of her smile.

Bradley is nineteen, standing at his mother’s open grave, when he decides he’s never going to do to someone what Goose did to her. What he did to him.

For a while, he wants nothing to do with the memory of that man. Wraps himself in his mother, toys with the idea of taking her maiden name. Goes to college and gets drunk, gets high, gets himself into trouble. Thinks sometimes, in his very darkest moments, that maybe the best thing he could do for the world is to stop existing.

One night lands him at the police station. And it’s not like he got arrested or anything, they just take him in to sober up and tell him to call somebody to come get him. Mav is in town, thank God, and he comes in wearing his old aviator jacket and a wistful expression. Bradley’s call probably pulled him out of some bar or some girl or both.

Mav doesn’t say much, just drives him back to his college dorm and pulls over to the curb, doesn’t even turn off the car. They sit there in silence, with the blinker going and the engine purring.

Finally, Mav says, “Sometimes, you remind me so much of your father, it scares me.”

Bradley doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing. Sits there for a little longer and watches as frat bros and law students and cheerleaders cross the street on their way to hook-ups, to parties, to midnight fast food runs. Envies them just for a moment. Then, without saying goodbye, gets out of the car, goes to his room, and buries himself beneath the weight of his blankets.

So it’s like Bradley always suspected. It really is a futile thing, trying to escape the memory of his father. His ghost lives inside Bradley’s chest. Rattles against his bones.

And he loves him, even if he doesn’t remember him. Thinks that love is some intrinsic, primordial thing. Something that was there before he was born and will be there after he dies. Something he can’t fight. Unstoppable like the tide.

So he embraces it instead. Tries growing a mustache he’ll only be able to pull off much later in life, gets those old Hawaiian shirts out of storage. Decides to give into the underlying current of longing he’s felt every time he tipped his head back and looked at the sky.

Accepting that he loves his father is much easier than he thought it would be. Much easier than hating him.

It’s good for a while because it feels like he has a purpose, a goal. For so long, Bradley has been drifting at sea, unmoored, unbound, with no sense of direction. Now he’s swimming toward something, broad strokes, every move deliberate.

Then Mav pulls his papers.

The worst part of it all, worse than the betrayal, worse than the anger, is the confusion. He thought Mav would understand. Mav of all people. 

(It’s his mother, setting a casserole on the table, smiling at Bradley and saying Pete over here, he’s the craziest pilot the Navy’s ever seen. It’s his sixth Christmas, the second one without his dad, and Mav gives him a model of a plane they’ll build together. It’s Mav staring at him with eyes gleaming with moisture the time he stole the Navy hat from his uncle’s head. It’s Mav in every memory of his life, laced so tightly to him he thought they were inseparable, woven together. Now the seams are coming apart.)

Mav, who keeps flying, who seems only to be a real, complete person for those few, short, fleeting moments just after he steps off a plane. Who’s never happy unless he’s going break-neck speed miles and miles above the ground, jumping off death’s shovel, laughing, flipping the bird, and saying look, I can fly!

If Maverick doesn’t understand why Bradley wants to fly, why he needs to fly, then who ever could?

Mav wants to explain it, calls him, shows up at his apartment. Bradley declines the calls, turns off all the lights, and sits on his couch in perfect silence, pretending he isn’t in.

He doesn’t want to hear explanations, doesn’t want to listen to excuses. He wants to fly.

Back when his mother was alive, she wouldn’t even let him get on an airplane. His whole childhood, they only left their state once to go to a funeral of some distant aunt or cousin or uncle, Bradley can’t remember, and his mother drove the whole ten hours there and back. It didn’t even register as anything weird to him - it was all juice boxes and gas station ice cream and goldies on the radio. It was his mom’s laughter and her smile and her fingers carding strands of hair warmed by the sun out of his eyes.

So Bradley remembers his mother every time he gets into a car. But his dad? Him, he can only get above the clouds.

He doesn’t give up. He finishes college, works odd jobs for some money, drifts further and further from the orbit he used to inhabit. And then he applies to the academy again, and then he goes to Top Gun, and he graduates top of his class and wonders what it would feel like if there were somebody to be proud of him. If somebody were congratulating him, taking him out for a celebratory dinner, or just somebody to hug him. What it would feel like if he weren’t so alone.

It’s what he dreams about sometimes, in the very darkest pockets of the night. A house with a swing set and a big, smiling, dumb dog and a pretty wife and a whole gaggle of children running through the garden. Bradley would teach them how to throw a football, and he’d carry them to bed at night, and his wife would smile at him, and there would always be food in the fridge and brownies on the table, and every room would be filled with love, and there would be no ghosts to haunt him.

It’s a dangerous fantasy. It’s a trap door, a slippery slope, it’s a snare, it’s a cliff’s edge. If he stays in it too long, he’ll be lost.

His mother always used to say he was a functional dreamer. He had his head stuck in the clouds, sure, but he knew exactly when to pull it out of there too. Maybe that’s why he’s such a good pilot.

So Bradley still is a functional dreamer. He knows that this is something he can never have, can never allow himself to have. He knows the pain of it too well, too intimately, still feels it every time he catches sight of his reflection in a mirror, the golden streaks of sun in his hair, the mustache, the split second of pure, blank horror, of oh god I look like him, I look so much like him, and feels it slice right through him like a knife through butter. He’s been carrying his father’s ghost for so long, sometimes it feels like his spine will crack under the weight.

Maybe people that live life like he does, like Mav does, like his father did - up in the sky, heads in the clouds - aren’t meant to have anything on the ground. Inevitably, they always end up leaving it.

He decided the day of his mother’s funeral, before the long procession of I’m sorrys and If you need anythings, before he let real estate agents into a house overflowing with cards and flowers - flowers in every room, flowers blooming and wilting and dying like a garden watered by his grief, like a garden watered by his ghosts - that he would never have a family. Not a wife to mourn him, not a child to miss him.

So there’ll be nobody to carry the burden of him.

And then he meets you.

It’s not momentous - it’s easy. Natural. Quicker than he thought possible. It’s stolen glances across a room and a smile that brands him like a mark, that cuts right through to the bone. A smile that settles in his heart. A smile that’ll never leave again.

In the beginning, he tries to fight it. Tells himself not to engage, not to get involved, to stay out of the mess he knows he’ll make here inevitably. To shield him, but to shield you too, to protect you from whatever hurt he’s going to inflict sooner or later.

But then it goes like this:

“Are you never going to ask me out, Bradshaw?” you ask him, smiling as you pluck his Ray Bans from him, as you place them on your own nose, and blink at him from over the rims.

The sun is casting you in gold. Bradley wants to catch the moment in a mason jar and put it on his bedside table. Let the glow illuminate his nights.

“I don’t think….” He trails off, wonders why it’s so easy for him to talk to you, why he can’t stop spilling truths like leaking water taps. “I don’t think I’ll be good for you.”

You don’t miss a beat. One eyebrow raising, you say, “And don’t you think that should be my decision?”

That’s when he knows that for him, you will always be it. That it’ll never be this way again with someone else. It’s not even a question. It’s just the truth.

When he’s with you, for the first time since he sat shotgun in a car with his mother, head nodding along to Elvis on the radio, Bradley feels like he belongs somewhere. Like he’s reached a shore, maybe. Like he can breathe.

For the first time, it feels like he knows peace, even with his feet on the ground.

His mother would have loved you.

You have a long conversation about it. About how he knows you want it - the diapers and the first days of school and the family Christmases. The pitter-patter of children’s feet, the cribs, the tiny fingers curling around your thumb. He knows you’ve dreamed of it all your life. And Bradley also knows, as much as it hurts, as much as it aches, that he can never give it to you.

He needs to be honest. He needs to put all the cards on the table so you know your options, see the truth about him. So you can walk away before you get any deeper into this.

Part of him is sure you will. Thinks it might be better, the safest option for both of you. Hopes you will, fears you will.

It doesn’t matter that he loves you. It doesn’t matter that he only feels at peace when he’s with you. It doesn’t matter that for the first time since he was four years old, the ghosts have gone quiet.

What matters is that he wants you to be happy. What matters is that if that happiness lies somewhere else, with someone else, with someone who’ll give you everything you dream of, give you a life, give you a child… Bradley will let you go. It’ll be the hardest thing he’s ever done, but he will.

Only you don’t leave.

You think about it for a very, very long time. Sit at his kitchen table with your hands folded on the tablecloth like you’re praying, with your head turned down, without looking at him, and then finally you say, “Alright. Fine with me.”

And Bradley’s protesting, pushing, saying, “Honey, you want this, I know you do, you want a family, you….”

“I want you more,” you say, and that’s that.

There’s no lie to it. It’s the truth, naked and beautiful and awful.

And Bradley - selfish as he is - accepts it. Because he doesn’t want to lose you. Because as much as he tries to convince himself of the opposite, deep down, he knows he’s not a good man. Just like his father wasn’t. They’re both just men willing to leave the people they love behind. Brave enough to fight for the “greater good”, but never brave enough to stay.

Regardless of it all, it’s the happiest Bradley has been in years. With you, he doesn’t feel like something is missing from him. He actually feels whole.

Your job as a freelancer allows you to travel with him, and he’s unspeakably grateful for it. He tries to show you, tries to be good about bringing flowers and cooking dinner, thinks if he can make you even a fraction as happy as you make him, he’ll have succeeded. When he gets deployed, he spends days memorizing your face, the shape of your throat where your pulse point jumps, the pattern of your heartbeat, the feeling of you beneath his arm.

And sometimes, when you’re asleep, Bradley puts his hand on your stomach and imagines a bump there, imagines a baby growing beneath it, and that’s when the ache gets so strong he thinks he can’t breathe.

That’s when he hates himself for not being something else: a doctor, an accountant, a real estate agent. Anything other than what he is. Could he have it then, this thing you both want so much? Could he let himself have it?

But eventually, when the fantasies fade, he always circles back to the truth: Bradley isn’t a doctor or an accountant or a real estate agent. He’s a pilot. Always has been, always will be.

He’s just too much like his father. That’s the whole point.

When he gets called back to Top Gun, three years after he met you, something shifts. He doesn’t know to explain it, but from the very first moment he sets foot on North Island again, something about it tastes like the beginning of an end. At night, he can’t settle, roams through the little house you rent off base like a sleepwalker. Checks in on you like he’s afraid you’re going to disappear. Can’t concentrate up in the air, can’t shut his brain off.

It’s like his father’s ghost travels with him in his suitcases, tucked between his neatly folded shirts, climbs out when no one’s looking. No matter where he goes, that ghost goes too. He can’t shake him.

You love California. You like the sunshine and the ocean. Like the Hard Deck and Penny and Phoenix. Turn your face into the warmth like a sunflower, and then you bloom, go brighter and brighter as Bradley goes the opposite direction. As something in him dims.

“Is it because of Mav?” you ask him softly, in the quiet of your bedroom. You’re carding hair from his forehead, fingers gentle, voice gentler.

Bradley can’t look at you. Shame coils low in his stomach.

“Yes,” he says, even if it feels like a lie in his mouth.

You sigh, no annoyance, only affection. Your head is heavy on his shoulder as you press the shape of a yawn into his skin.

“I know he hurt you, Bradley,” you whisper. “It’s okay to be hurt. But I think you need to talk to him.”

He nods into the darkness. You’re right. You’re always right.

“I know,” he agrees, even though he knows he won’t.

When you’re asleep, Bradley slips out of bed. Pats into the living room and sits on the floor, back leaning against the couch. Pulls his knees up to his chest, closes his eyes, and then he dreams.

He dreams he’s four riding on his father’s shoulders through the living room. He dreams he’s ten, in a car with his mother, turning up the radio. He dreams he’s twenty, and he lets Mav explain. He dreams he’s thirty-five, and he marries you. He dreams he’s thirty-six and holding his baby. He dreams it’s a little girl with your smile and his eyes, and he loves her more than he thought he was capable of, so much it almost breaks him apart, so much it puts him back together. So much it’s worth it all.

Bradley’s earliest memory is of the giant, bone-white seashell on his grandmother’s mantlepiece. He remembers how heavy it was, remembers how cold it felt against the side of his face when he pressed it to his ear. He remembers hearing the distant, muffled hum of the waves, the song of the sea, remembers imagining what it might look like. 

It’s no comparison to the real thing, years and years and years later, he knows this, but it’s something. It’s better than nothing.

It’s all he can allow himself—an ocean in a seashell.

The mission is a disaster, even if it is successful. Later, Bradley won’t remember what he was thinking up in the air, when he hit the target, when Mav went down, when he decided to go after him. He won’t even be able to tell if that is because he’s in shock or because he really wasn’t thinking anything. Maybe for the first time in his life.

If he had been thinking, Bradley likes to believe he would have kept his plane on course. Would have flown back to the carrier and then back to you, home, home, home. Wouldn’t have gone back for a man he still hasn’t spoken to, not properly, someone he loved once and now barely knows.

But all the ghosts of the people he’s loved and lost crowd up on him in that cockpit - his father and his mother and even Admiral Kazansky and their sad, sad eyes. There’s no room for Mav to be up there, too, he thinks.

So at first, you don’t cross his mind at all. He just follows his instincts like he’s never done before, could never bring himself to do. So much of Bradley’s life has been about dissecting just those urges, dismantling them, disabling them. Making himself into a creature of logic and second-guessing. Now, for the first time, he gives in to the currents and lets himself be rushed away.

And then his plane goes down, and he drifts into the white white white of snow he hasn’t felt in so long - and still, he doesn’t think. But every instinct from the moment of impact on, the moment his feet hit the ground, every instinct centers on you.

Home, he thinks. I need to get home to her.

Up in that F-14, that’s when he realizes. The brink of death is a bleak place. It’s a place of memories, a place of despair. It’s a place of hope.

All he can think of is you. How he’s leaving you with nothing. How he’s going to die here, miles above the ocean, and what will happen then? Who’s going to bring you his dog tags, the way Mav had brought his father’s to Carole all those years ago? Phoenix? Hangman? How are they even going to retrieve them if he goes down in enemy territory? Will anybody even remember the girl in that house, the one he didn’t even marry? And why didn’t he anyway? Why didn’t he put a ring on your finger, buy you a house, get you a dog, give you a baby?

What will remain of him now, in this world after he’s gone?

Nothing, he thinks, and his lungs fill with water, high up in the sky. You made damn sure of that, Bradley.

There will be nobody to haunt. He will disappear, and he will take his mother with him, will take his father with him, will take Mav with him. Nobody to remember him. Nobody to mourn him except you, all alone, carrying the terrible burden of his ghost.

It used to be a relief. Nobody to mourn me after I’m gone. Now it feels like a punishment.

Home, he thinks, remembering the content of your smile and your eyes gleaming in the darkness and your face turning, always turning, toward the sun. Like a child, as he closes his eyes, as he tries to accept the inevitable, he thinks, I want to go home. I just want to go home.

And then that’s what he does—he and Mav. Incredibly, inexplicably, illogically, they go home.

From far away, as he walks up the driveway, the little house with the gardenias you planted blooming pink and red in front of the windows looks like an oasis at first. Then it seems to grow longer, taller, goes from beckoning to daunting. He almost doesn’t make it inside. Almost doesn’t dare to get out his keys, unlock the front door, push through and toe off his shoes. Feels like he’s doing something forbidden, like he’s an unwanted guest in his own home.

You’re in the kitchen, elbows deep in sudsy dishwater, and when he walks through the doorway, when you hear the pat of his socked feet against the tiled floors, you look up at him with an open face full of love, full of relief. It almost bowls him over.

“Bradley,” you whisper, voice soft, and then you’re crossing the room, bubbles and foam and water dripping from your wrists across the tile, and he blinks at the trail you leave for a moment. Then you’re there, arms wrapping around his neck, face pressing against his shoulder, saying his name again and again, like a benediction, like a prayer of thanks.

Automatically, he pulls you against him with both arms crossed over your hips. Inhales deep, lets the familiar scent of you envelop him. Listens to your breath echoing against the dip of his collarbone, to the steady rhythm of your heart.

Your hands leave wet prints against the fabric of his shirt, like something primeval pressed to cave walls, like something that’s been happening for centuries, something that is happening right now, something that will happen again tomorrow and next year and the year after that, and distantly, dumbly, Bradley thinks, Oh. I’m alive. I’m here.

He feels packed in cotton. He feels submerged. He feels not-real, not-present, not-normal. He feels like he’s going to fall apart, and no one will notice.

When you draw back, it takes you only a split second to realize something’s wrong. You frown, the furrow Bradley likes to smooth out with his thumb appearing between your eyebrows, eyes swimming with a concern he doesn’t deserve.

“What happened?”

It’s classified, all of it. There’s so much of his life Bradley isn’t allowed to share with you, even if he wants to. There’s so much he doesn’t want to share but knows he should.

From far away, he hears himself say, “My plane went down.”

He can feel the panic in your body, feels it go through you like a spasm. You try to draw back, but he holds you where you are, afraid he’s going to shatter all across the kitchen floor the moment you’re gone.

It’s not fair, he thinks, how he keeps looking to you to hold him together. It’s just that at the end of the day, you’ve always been so much stronger than him.

“Bradley…” you begin to say, but he can’t hear it. He doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t want to hear how scared you are every time he leaves, he doesn’t want to hear how it made you feel to know that he almost died because he already knows. He knows.

“I want…” he says into your hair, a fragment of a sentence, a statement that trails off halfway, that goes nowhere. He doesn’t even know what he’s trying to say.

In some ways, he feels stuck in that F-14. Like time kept moving, but he didn’t, remained static and crystallized like somebody dipped the moment in amber and preserved it on a bookshelf. Nothing makes sense to him. Rationally, he knows he’s standing here in his kitchen with you in his arms, knows he isn’t dead, knows he survived, but it doesn’t feel like it. 

So Bradley tries to remember grounding exercises, focuses on little things, mundane things, things that shouldn’t exist on the verge of death. The bubbles popping in the sink. The specks of dust dancing through the room. The curve of your spine beneath the worn fabric of his Navy shirt.

Suddenly, the thought of you alone in this house is unbearable. Waiting for a man that never comes back. History repeating itself in the worst of ways.

“I want to have a baby,” he says, out of nowhere, out of some madness that took hold of him up in the air, or maybe when he touched the ground, or maybe at some other point he can’t name, can’t even think.

And it’s not a conscious thought. It’s not a decision he makes. It’s just something that spills from him, something that has been there unnoticed all along, words taking shape on his tongue before he can overthink their meaning, but then they’re out, and they drop between you like an anvil, and it’s like a relief, it’s like a breath he’s been holding for years, it’s like a sigh, something inside of him finally unlatching, finally escaping the shackles he put on it himself.

Oh, he thinks. He’s known this about himself, always, but it’s the first time he says it out loud. It’s always been a want, an ache, a yearning, but now it goes from all that to a need, a thrumming inside of him, something that cannot be ignored. Something that demands to be felt instead of thought.

In his arms, you stiffen.

With your palms on his chest, you push him away from you, take a step back, take the warmth and the scent and the anchor with you. Bradley is surprised he doesn’t float right up to the ceiling.

The openness of your face has shuttered now. You look at him with something unreadable crossing your features, something unfamiliar, and say, “What did you just say?”

Bradley swallows around a lump in his throat. “I want to have a baby,” he repeats, his voice smaller now, quieter, but the words more assured.

Because he does. Because it’s true. Because he’s always wanted this and doesn’t know how to explain to you that now he needs it. How now it’s the only thing that makes sense in a world that’s gone off the rails.

Your face falls, something crumbles, and it hits him like a punch to the gut. 

“No,” you say, turning away from him. You step right into the trail of water you left earlier, it soaks into your socks, and then you’re leaving footprints too. Everywhere you go, you leave your mark like a brand. Not one part of Bradley has been left untouched.

Confusion zaps through him, but it’s a muted feeling. Muffled by all the chaos.

“I thought you….” It’s a great effort to form words, like pulling teeth. “You want children. Don’t you want this?”

“Not like…” You pause, rake your fingers through your hair, exasperation crackling from you like sparks from a burned-out socket, and Bradley can’t make sense of it.

You want this, he knows you do. So what’s the problem now? What did he do wrong?

“I don’t….”

“Don’t go there.”

There’s a finality to your voice, and he sees you drawing back from him, sees your shoulders come up, your face turning away, something wilting.

The idea of losing you, of pushing you away now that he’s finally decided to let you in, really let you in, the panic of it finally slices through the haze. Lifts the fog.

Bradley crosses the room and says, “It’s your decision too, honey, of course, it is, but I love you, and I want this, and….”

You whirl on him, and it punches the air out of his lungs. There’s real anger on your face now, your eyes sparkling with unshed tears, and Bradley’s heart clenches in answer.

“You don’t get to do this,” you say, voice heaving with the barely contained emotion, a ship on a stormy sea, “not after I compromised, not after I spent so long trying to get used to the idea of not having a baby, not after giving that up for you, Bradley. You don’t… don’t get to just come in here and change your mind just because it suits you, because you had some near-death experience and you’re full of adrenaline and… and….”

Bradley frowns, moves to touch you, but you flinch away from him, one arm going up to hug your own ribcage. As if you have to shield yourself from him.

Suddenly, he feels a sob building in his throat. To realize how much he’s hurt you, not just today by springing this on you, but by how selfish he was, again and again. By letting his past stand in the way of your future.

“It’s not that I changed my mind,” he begins, trying to string together something that will make you see the truth of it, make you understand what he means.

You interrupt, “You said you didn’t want kids.”

Bradley pauses. Did he say that? If he did… 

“And it…” You gasp for breath, the tears now streaming freely down your face, and god, it hurts, it hurts worse than thinking he lost Mav, hurts worse than thinking he’d die in that F-14 because all of that he’d been prepared for, had been practicing for his whole life. Losing Maverick, losing himself, all of that had been inevitable. But losing you… Bradley always assumed he was going to be the one to go first. 

“It’s fine,” you go on. “I was fine with it, Bradley, I gave that dream up because… because I wanted you more, and I was okay with it. It was my decision, and I don’t regret it, but for you to just… to just….”

“I do want children,” he says because he doesn’t know what to do except explain it, except make you see the truth of it all. “I’ve always… I’ve always wanted children, honey. I just… after what happened to my dad, after what that did to me, what it did to my mother, I didn’t… I didn’t want to do that to you. I couldn’t do that to you.”

For a moment, you say nothing, eyebrows furrowed, lower lip caught between your teeth.

“You…” You look like you’re trying very hard to understand it. “Are you saying you decided not to have children with me because you thought it would hurt me too much if you died?”

When you say it like that, out loud, logically, through your tears, it sounds so incredibly stupid.

Bradley opens and closes his mouth, once, twice. Finally, he nods.

He expects you to start crying harder, to hit him (all valid reactions, really), but instead, you do the one thing he doesn’t expect: You laugh. It’s a watery sound, barely amused, but it is a laugh.

You bury your face in your hands, then reemerge after a moment, eyes rimmed in red, and say, “God, Bradley, you’re so stupid.”

“I…” He doesn’t know what to say to that. Probably, you’re right. “What?”

“You just…” You exhale a long, shuddering breath. “You keep trying to make decisions without me.”

“... I do?”

“Yeah!” Your voice rises a little, then settles, and you say, “This is my decision as much as it’s yours. If I say I want it, if I say I know the risk and I know the danger, then you don’t get to tell me no. Do you think I’m dumb? Do you think I don’t understand what goes on when you get deployed? Do you think I don’t know that you’re risking your life all the time?”

“No, I… I know you know that.”

You shrug, and it’s a gesture of such helplessness that Bradley’s knees almost buckle.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow. I don’t know if… if one day there’s going to be a mission you don’t come back from. I don’t know that, Bradley. I can’t know that. But until then… can’t you just let us be happy?”

Bradley’s shaking. Head to toe, tremors that run through him like the tides. Unstoppable. Unrelenting.

“I…” And he knows he’s the one who brought it up, but suddenly all the doubts come crashing down. Suddenly the ghosts crowd around him. “What if I die? What if I leave you? What if we have a baby and I’m not… there?”

“Oh, Bradley…” Something on your face melts. You step closer, put a hand on his cheek, fingertips still pruned from the water, and say, so gently it breaks something open inside of him, “Bradley. You’re not your father.”

And Bradley can’t help it - he cries. It’s an ugly sort of crying, the sort that leaves you with a headache and snot dripping down your face and eyes that hurt. The one you feel in the morning. But it’s a relief too. A release. Rain after years and years of drought.

For so long, Bradley was trying to let go of a world that didn’t want him to leave. He’s been preparing for an early exit since he entered, has been so caught up in dreaming he forgot to live. So caught up in thinking he forgot to do. He thought he would be content to go out of this world and leave nothing behind, to disappear without a trace, without a word, without a ghost.

But now he sees it clearly. Now he understands.

Bradley doesn’t want to stop existing. He wants to cling to this world like someone clinging to the edge of a cliff, like a leech, like a cancer. He wants to haunt someone.

Only there’s something else, too. 

A week before his mother died, when she had gone all quiet, when she had lost the vibrancy she used to carry around like a glow, when she had slept longer and spoke less and Bradley had known, somewhere deep inside of him, that things were ending, that they were truly ending, he’d gathered all his courage and asked a question he’d been rehearsing for weeks, months, years.

“Do you regret it?”

Do you regret loving my father now, knowing all that would come after? Knowing the landslide it really was?

And Carol had just smiled, something of that old light returning for a moment, a tenderness so big it felt like violence, and she’d said, “I could never regret him. Not even the heartbreak or the grief or the pain. After all, he gave me you, didn’t he?”

Maybe, he thinks, it’s time to let the past be in the past. Maybe it’s time to let himself have a future.

Maybe it’s time to let go of the ghost.

And you just hold him as he cries like he hasn’t since he locked himself in a bathroom stall after his mother’s funeral, cries until it feels like he’s going to throw up, cries until the gnashing teeth of grief of pain of hurt of anger finally leave him be.

After half an eternity, you pull away, warm hands cupping his face, tugging him gently away from the crook of your neck, so he has to look at you, can’t look anywhere but at you, and then you say, “Bradley, what happened to your father was a horrible, terrible accident. But he loved you. You know that, don’t you?”

He nods. His father, the hazy shape of him, the ghost he’s carried for so long - frosted tips and Hawaiian shirts and the smell of motor oil. Large hands and a mustache and rides around living rooms. So much of him is shadowed, fractioned, incomplete, but not this. This he knows. When he thinks of his father, there’s nothing now but the hazy, easy warmth of love. 

“Do you really think,” you say softly, “that they made a mistake when they had you? Your parents? Do you really think they shouldn’t have done it?”

Bradley has thought about his life in boxes. Big cardboard ones, the kind you get when you move apartments. He tucks the good parts away beneath his bed, stows them, hoards them like a secret. Like his mother kept her grief. But all the bad parts - the pain and the sadness and the sorrow - those he lets pile up everywhere, in hallways, in living rooms, on kitchen tables. He stumbles over them on his way to the bathroom. He stubs his toe halfway to the closet.

He never looks at those good parts, afraid they’ll become tainted somehow if he thinks about them for too long, afraid they’ll lose their appeal or their strength. But there’s so much good there too.

Goose loved him, he knows this without a doubt. Carole loved him. Mav loves him, Phoenix loves him, you love him… At the end of it all, even despite all the terrible things that have happened to him, even with the ghosts that have haunted him for so long, Bradley has been loved, and he has lived, and he has been happy.

Shouldn’t that be worth something, too?

“No,” he says, voice soft, “no, I’m glad they had me.”

His life has been a long, long road. Difficult to walk sometimes, full of potholes, some as big as canyons. But there’s so much happiness there, too - car rides with his mother, Mav telling him stories about his father, the moment when the wheels lift off the tarmac at take-off. This long, terrible, winding road that led him here. That led him to you.

You brush your fingertips across his cheekbone, and Bradley capsizes.

“I love you,” he says, and it’s the truest thing he’s ever said. It’s the truest thing he’s ever known. “I want… I want to have a life with you.”

“You do,” you answer. “You have one.”

Bradley’s tears have dried so the sound he makes isn’t really a sob, but it’s damn close to one. 

“Do you…” He clears his throat. “You love me, too?”

It’s a dumb question, unnecessary because he already knows the answer. But he needs to hear you say it anyway.

And when you smile, your whole face lights up. It echoes somewhere inside Bradley, somewhere at his core, goes through him like a current.

“Bradley Bradshaw,” you say, and there’s only a little bit of amusement in your voice, ��you’re the love of my life.”

His heart jumps like a jackknife in his chest.

Before he recognizes that he’s made the conscious decision to do so, he’s bridged the space between you and has pulled you into a searing, soaring, slow kiss. He fumbles it a little, teeth knocking against yours, but you just laugh into it, going up on your tiptoes, arms wrapping around his neck, pulling yourself closer to him like you want to meld yourself to his bones. Bradley feels like somebody’s poured liquid sunlight into his chest.

Somewhere it goes heated, goes desperate, goes near frantic, all the adrenaline, all the fear, everything pouring from him in a shower of want. Somehow he’s got you pressed up against the counter, tongue tangled with yours, fingers in your hair, fingers on your back, fingers pulling up the edge of the shirt you’ve stolen from him to find the warm, soft skin beneath.

Breathless, heart stuttering, Bradley pulls away, looks at your lips swollen from the tug of his teeth, your eyes with the heavy lids, the hair mussed by his fingers, and he needs to hear it. Needs to know you want this as much as he does. The ache in him twists like a knife between the ribs.

“Tell me,” he whispers, afraid the moment will shatter if he makes a wrong move, speaks too loudly. It’s so fragile - he wants to protect it so fiercely. Presses the tips of his fingers into the place where your pulse hammers away. “Tell me you want to have a baby with me.”

“I want…” And you sigh, a sound like a spring day, a sound like a rushing mountain stream. “I want it.”

He surges forward, lips against yours again, and you’re so alive beneath him, heart racing, breath heaving, fingers grappling along his neck, his shoulders, his chest, his arms, and Bradley wants to devour you. Wants to sink his teeth into all this life and never let it go again. He wants to exist, right here, in this moment with you forever.

“I love you,” he mumbles into your neck, lets his mouth move over the column of your throat, down to the sharp points of your collarbones beneath the soft skin. Sinks to his knees on the kitchen tiles like he’s kneeling at an altar to pray.

“Bradley,” you whisper, fingers going to tangle in his hair, to smooth along the sides of his face, and the softness in your voice cracks something in him. He swears he could cry again.

He doesn’t even know what he’s doing as he nuzzles his nose against the sloping curve of your upper thigh, as his fingers tighten on your hips. He just wants to be close to you. And you’re so soft, so warm, you smell like home, and it tears through him, blazes everything in its wake, to realize just how close he came to losing it all.

“I’m gonna marry you,” he whispers, babbles, barely coherent, pressing his face against the fabric of your panties, inhaling your scent, opening his mouth to push his tongue where he knows your clit is. “Gonna make you so happy, baby, I promise, it’s all I want. I’m never letting you go again, I’m never….”

Above him, you whimper, hips knocking forward, arching into the movement of his tongue for a moment, and he wonders if you’re wet, thinks about the hot, tight vice of your cunt, and groans against you. His cock jumps.

Then you’re tugging him away from you by the hair, and Bradley goes reluctantly, mouth still open, wishing he could stay where he was forever. Drowning in you. 

You’re looking down at him with eyes blown wide.

“Bradley,” you say, and there’s something unsteady to your voice. “Take me to bed.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. It’s a tumble all the way to your bedroom - he kicks off his shoes on the way, you lose your shirt, and he’s somehow, miraculously, gotten down to his boxers by the time he drags you backward with him onto the mattress.

“I love you,” he says as he drags you on top of him, your legs opening around his hips like the petals of a flower. The mattress dips where your knees press against the springs, your weight grounds him. “I love you, you’re so perfect, you’re….”

He has no idea what he’s saying. His brain checked out a while ago, and it’s all just feelings now, just emotions coursing through him, and every once in a while, one will plunge its head through the surface, and then he’ll tell you something nonsensical, something dumb, something important, something he needs you to know, something…

You lean down to kiss him, to shut him up, his brain buzzes, your breasts press to his bare chest, and he’s so hard in his boxers it hurts.

“I love you, too,” you whisper against his lips, smile into the kiss. The curve of it burns against Bradley’s face.

He sits up, grasps you by the thighs to drag you closer, drag your core across his cock, and you both moan against each other. Your fingernails scrape over the back of his neck, where his hair is buzzed so short he knows it feels like prickles, and he shudders, sighs, lets his tongue run across your teeth.

For a while, you just stay like that, rutting against each other like fucking teenagers, tongues lazy, fingers eager, mouths hungry. Even through your panties, he can feel your wetness, wonders if it’s going to leave stains on his underwear, across his thighs. Bradley thinks he’s going to die, but this time it’s nothing like it was up in the F-14.

It’s difficult in your position, awkward, but he gets a finger first on your clit, and then, when he finds you wet and swollen and open, he slides it right inside you. Watches your face as you squeeze your eyes shut, as your mouth falls open on a muffled gasp, as your head tips backward.

You’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

He fucks his finger in and out slowly, adds a second to stretch you, and then he’s saying, “Baby, honey, you’re so tight, you’re so fucking wet, god I….”

You whimper, and then you’re pulling off him, shimmying out of your panties, leaning down to tug his boxers off.

“Gotta have…” Your throat moves when you swallow as you clamber back into his lap. “Want you inside me, please, Bradley. I’m ready.”

He groans, something in his stomach yanking tight, and he’s pretty sure he’s leaking precum steadily by now.

There’s no time to tease, no need for it either, not when you’re both aching for it, not after what you’ve just gone through. The hot slide of him inside you, feeling you all around him, Bradley thinks that might be the only thing that could make him realize he’s actually back here, that it isn’t all just a dream, that he didn’t actually go down in that plane and has been stuck in some kind of cruel limbo for the past few days.

But there’s the other thing too. The need he can’t explain. The selfish, horrible, depraved thing he can share with nobody but you. That nobody but you would ever understand.

Slowly, tentatively, he places his palm on your stomach, fingers splaying wide, and leaves it there. He’s too scared to look at you, too scared of what you’ll think of him, too scared of what you’ll do once you find out how deep his desire runs, how desperately he wants this. Will you hate him? Will you be disgusted? Will you draw back, pull away, leave him alone with all his depravity and all his fears and all his sorrow? 

“I need… I want…” He can’t even finish the sentence, brain too foggy. Too scared to meet your eyes, Bradley just blinks at the sight in front of him, his big hand on your skin, and his heart seizes, his insides clench, and he can’t breathe, can’t, he’s going to…

Slowly, your fingers wrap around his wrist.

“Yes,” you breathe above him.

It’s a visceral thing. The words burn through him, wrap around him, curl into him. He surges forward to kiss you, desperate, a choked sound escaping him, and licks into your mouth. Around his wrist, your fingers tighten.

He pushes you back into the sheets, crawls over you and spreads your legs, slides between them where he belongs. When his gaze falls to your face, there’s so much trust there, so much love, and it cleaves him in two, just how much he loves you, just how much he needs you. He doesn’t have the words to express it, can only hope you understand what he means when he plunges into you without preamble, when he whispers your name against the shell of your ear, when he curves around you like he wants to shield you from everything bad in the world.

You moan, fingers coming up to grasp his arm where he’s balancing his weight on the elbows. Your mouth tips open, your eyes not straying from his for a second as he goes slow, as he goes deep, as he goes home. There’s an answer in that too.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, voice choked as he bottoms out, as he holds himself perfectly still. “So tight and beautiful, and you’re all mine, and I’m yours and….”

“Bradley,” you stop him. Wrap your legs around his hips and pull him in. “It’s okay. You can move now.”

So he does.

It’s frantic from the first moment. It’s all the tension that’s been building up for years and years inside of him, all his love and all his longing finally laid open, and he can’t hold back anymore, not when he feels like he’s going to burst out of his own skin at any moment now.

The wet squeeze of your walls around his cock has his eyes rolling into the back of his head.

“Fuck,” he curses, hips pushing forward at an unsteady pace, as he leans down to kiss you again, as you open your mouth for him easily, as he nips at your lower lip.

And it’s so dumb - he’s inside of you, curled around you, his tongue tangled with your own, but Bradley wants you closer, still. Needs to know that you’re there with him, that he’s here with you, that he came home and he is letting himself have this, you’re letting him have it, and he loves you, he loves you, he…

Bradley takes his weight off his elbows, gets his arms around you, plasters himself to you, chest to chest, hip to hip, mouth finding the side of your neck, your collarbones. Like this, with his arms around your shoulders, it feels almost like he’s pulling you down to him with every thrust, like he slides just half an inch deeper into you.

You try to muffle a moan into his hair, but Bradley pulls your face away, keeps his pace as he says, “Wanna hear you. Let me hear you, baby, tell me how much you like it. You love it, don’t you? Love my cock, yeah? Love it when I fuck you?”

Maybe it’s pathetic, but Bradley needs to hear it. Needs to know you’re as desperate for him as he is for you. Needs to know you want it just as much.

On a thrust in, your walls flutter around him, and you whine, back arching a little, head sliding across the pillow as you nod.

“Yes,” you gasp, “I love it, Bradley, I love your cock. Thought about it while you were gone all the time, every night, I….”

Bradley groans, shudders, suddenly so close to the brink he needs to squeeze his eyes shut against the image of you - the glossy eyes, the swollen lips, the absolute ruin he’s reduced you to.

“Can’t say shit like that, baby,” he whispers, leaning to press tender kisses to the column of your throat. “Not when you’re this fucking wet, not when you’re making these sounds… you’re gonna make me cum.”

You giggle, then moan, head lolling to the side to give him better access. 

“Good,” you say, legs hiking higher up on his hips, his cock sliding deeper, “that’s the plan, isn’t it?”

If there were any air left in his lungs, Bradley would laugh with you. As it stands, he just ups the ante, going a little harder, watching as your eyelashes flutter, feeling your fingers spasm against the skin of his back.

It’s so hot in the room, both of you sticking to each other with sweat, and maybe that, too, should be disgusting, but Bradley doesn’t care. When he leans down to lick a long, wet stripe along the edge of your jaw, he tastes salt on his tongue.

“I’m gonna….” When he glances down at you, at the eyes wide with that much trust, as he realizes you would let him do just about anything to you, that you’ve both opened yourself to each other completely now, no barriers and no ghosts standing between you, it’s like a dam breaking. He moans, so loud it echoes through the room, leans to plunge his tongue into your mouth, desperate, and then he’s saying into it, “God, I’m gonna fuck you so full, honey, gonna fuck you until it takes, yeah? Gonna keep you right here and fill you up, again and again, gonna make sure to get a baby in you, fuck, you’d be so fucking pretty, honey, so pretty all full of me, I know it, I can….”

And you sob. Full-on. Back arching off the bed, legs sliding off his hips, spreading so wide it must hurt.

“Bradley,” you say, fingernails breaking skin, forehead pressing against his throat to hide your face. “Bradley, fuck, I… the pill….”

He’s shaking his head, cutting you off with his mouth on yours. Conveying what he can’t speak, what he’s too far gone to formulate, here where logic has become a distant, remote concept, here between your legs. Don’t say it. Let me live in this fantasy. Let me dream a little longer.

It’s the thought of it all - a bump beneath your dresses, a baby in your arms, tiny fingers wrapping around his thumb, it’s about the long, long stretch of life ahead of the two of you. It’s about a house filled with love and free of ghosts. It’s about the first glimpse of the ocean after listening to its roar in seashells all his life. It’s about giving himself over to you completely, after years of only dreaming of it.

Do you know? he wonders. Do you know that you’re holding his whole life in your hands?

“I love you,” he mumbles, repeats it as he sinks into you again and again, as he buries himself in you, as he holds onto you like he’ll be back in the cold, cold, cold of all that snow the moment he lets go, like he’ll go back to the cockpit with the ghosts like jailors around him, like he’ll float right off the face off the earth. You have always been his anchor. “I’m gonna give you a baby, honey, I promise, gonna cum inside of you, you want that, right? You want me to come right here in this pretty pussy, fill you up all nice and wet, and….”

Your mouth moves against his clavicle, the feel of it spreading like wildfire through him, and you’re saying, “Yes, yes, Bradley, give it to me, please, I wanna feel it, want you to come inside me, please, please, I need it, I….”

A yell punches from him as he thrusts inside one last time, buries himself to the hilt in your warmth, and then he’s panting, his ears are ringing, his veins are buzzing as he cums, as he paints you with his release. He can’t do anything except hold onto you, bury his face in your hair, inhaling your scent, jerking his hips forward erratically, little sounds escaping him. It’s never felt like this before - like dying and coming back alive. The release of it is so big he feels shattered under its weight. 

And you’re saying something to him, whispering words sticky with honey into his ear, pouring them right into his heart, and he can barely hear you over the hammering of his own heart, but it doesn’t matter. You hold him as he trembles, as he shakes, as he tries to collect himself, to control his breathing, hold him and stroke lazy, soft circles up and down his back, trace patterns against his spine, leave soft kisses on any inch of skin you can reach, trapped beneath his weight as you are.

Finally, after an eternity, Bradley pulls away an inch or two, careful not to let his cock slip out. There’s a little embarrassment spreading through his stomach now because he can’t believe he came that fast, can’t believe he didn’t even make sure to take you over the edge with him.

But you barely seem to think about your own lack of an orgasm.

“Are you okay?” you ask, voice gentle, face full of concern.

Bradley’s heart clenches. Maybe, he thinks, his ribcage is going to crack open. It seems impossible for one person to hold so much love inside.

“Are…” He clears his throat, suddenly unsure. “Are you?”

You nod immediately, smile, and the relief floods him. Then you shift, gasp, muscles fluttering around his softening cock.

“Well… I…”

He doesn’t let you finish, shakes his head, says, “You did so good for me, baby. Let me take care of you, yeah?”

He’s already looking at the place where you’re still connected, where his cum is beginning to drip from you in silvery trails. The sight of it is enough to make something like madness descend again, something like that earlier haze, the frenzy of the heat.

Bradley pulls out, sighs at the feeling, and your mouth opens as if in protest, but before you can form any words, he’s replaced his cock with two fingers.

You whimper, eyes closing, a muscle in your stomach jumping.

“I got you,” he says, keeps his eyes on the mess of your swollen cunt, the wet spot soaking into the mattress just beneath, the evidence of his pleasure, smooths his free hand over your chest to settle you. “Relax, honey. I got you.”

Your answer is a moan of his name, fingers twisting into the sheets. He can feel your walls bearing down on the motion of his fingers and knows you’re close, desperately, frantically, torturously close to the brink.

So he speeds up the movement of his digits, swipes his thumb through the sopping wetness, and then across your clit as he fucks his cum back into you. Not letting a single drop go to waste.

“Bradley,” you sob, mouth opening, fingers grappling for something.

Knowing what you need, knowing without you asking for it, he catches your hand with his own and interlaces your fingers. Then he leans down, leans over you, leans in. Finds the seam of your mouth with his own. It’s less of a kiss than both of you panting against each other, finding the same rhythm.

“You can let go now,” he whispers into you. “I’m here. I’ve got you, honey. My perfect girl.”

You come with his name on your lips, cunt clenching around his fingers, arching off the bed and into him, and it’s like a prayer. It’s like a song. 

It takes you a while to come down, and he coaxes you through it, brushes kisses against your lips and your jaw and your ear. Hopes he can ground you the same way you ground him.

Finally, softly, voice faint and fragile, you say, “That was… intense.”

Bradley hums in agreement, and then a laugh rips from him. Because it’s all so ridiculous and so monumental, and he doesn’t know where to go with all these emotions.

“I… yeah. It really was.” He pauses, feels shame curling through him. “I’m sorry I sprung that on you.”

You shake your head, lift one hand to run a finger across his mustache the way you like to do sometimes. 

“It’s okay,” you say, and he knows you mean it. “You must have carried that for a long time.”

It chokes him up, the way you know him so well. Better than anybody else.

“Yeah,” he agrees, drops his head into the crook of your neck. “It… I want you to know that I really want this. It’s not… it’s not adrenaline, and it’s not just almost dying, it’s… It’s you. I want this with you. Only with you.”

He can feel the curve of your smile against his temple, can hear it in your voice.

“I want it with you too, Bradley. Only with you.”

Bradley’s so afraid he’s going to start crying again that he springs into action instead. Reaches around you for a pillow to push beneath your hips, angle your lower body upwards.

“What are you doing?” you ask, laughing a little.

“I’m trying to keep my cum in you. Maybe we’re like super extra lucky, and it works out on the first try.”

Now you’re laughing in earnest, and he gets the impression it might be at his expanse.

“Still on the pill, Bradley,” you remind him, eyes luminous with your happiness.

Feeling a little sheepish, a little embarrassed, a little elated, he shrugs helplessly.

“Can’t hurt,” he says. Then adds, “Besides… I don’t want all my hard work to go to waste.”

Then you’re laughing together, breathless, loud laughter, the bending-at-the-waist kind. The belly-hurting kind. The kind that doesn’t come often.

And it’s good. It’s beautiful. It’s the kind of peace he’s never known before but has wanted always, always, always.

It’s so much better than anything he could have ever dreamed. Because it’s real. Because it’s true.

All his life, Bradley thinks, he’s been listening to oceans in seashells. It’s good, fun even, for a while, but it’s no replacement for the real thing. It’s no comparison to standing at the shore of the Pacific Ocean, watching waves crest and crash and throw themselves against the beach again and again, like a devotion that never ends. How big and beautiful and terrible the truth of it is.

And he’d thought the whole world was in that seashell.

Once the laughter has died down, once you’ve fallen back into the kind of comfortable silence that can exist only between people that really, truly love each other, Bradley strokes his thumb against your cheekbone, watches your eyes flutter closed.

“I love you,” he says, “more than I thought I could love someone. Thanks for loving me back.”

It’s bumbling, and it’s inadequate, and it doesn’t convey half of what it should.

But you smile at him, eyes opening, face so tender his heart stutters, and you whisper, “It’s an honor, Lieutenant Bradshaw.”

For the first time, Bradley doesn’t think about dying, doesn’t think about leaving. He thinks about living. He thinks about staying.

[moodybluemoon]

it’s really you (on my mind)

best friend’s brother!bucky barnes x fem!reader

(gif by me)

inseparable since middle school, it was no surprise that you ended up falling for your long-time best friend. what was surprising, was who you actually ended up with at the end of the day.

warnings: SMUT (unprotected vaginal sex, blowjobs, face fucking, finger fucking, dirty talk, name-calling, slightly public sex, consent checks, breeding), angst, insecurities, language, very small age gap, hurt/comfort, a little cheesiness. 

(this is highly inspired by something i watched a while ago, that i cannot remember for the life of me)

A two-week long vacation between two families can go one of two ways: completely fine and dandy, or a total fucking disaster mid-way through.

This one time, it’s not so perfectly black and white.

Weiterlesen

[moodybluemoon]

it’s you.

Summary; It’s always been him. You’ve just never noticed it before, until it was too late. One confession in a heated moment changes your entire relationship with Steve. 

18+ Content Below the Cut, Minors DNI.

masterlist

Weiterlesen

[moodybluemoon]

vanilla sponge [bucky barnes x reader]

➽ pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader (y/n) ➽ word count: 5.5k ➽ summary: the four times bucky said goodbye and the one time he said hello  ➽ warnings: explicit language, mentions of death, ANGST, eventual happy ending ➽ a/n: HAPPY BIRTHDAY BONK!!!! i meant for this to be a fluff blurb but it…. evolved lol. thanks @groupieforbucky​ for beta reading this! masterlist/taglist in bio!

Weiterlesen

[moodybluemoon]

heavy in your arms

— Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader — Summary: It was supposed to be an easy mission—as a trained spy, rarely do things happen without your predicted planning. No one can see true danger, though, and when it arrives, Bucky and the others feel the weight of their heart, realizing how much you’ve grown to mean for the team when they’re worrying for your life. — Word count: 2.8k — A/n: Requested by the darling Cherry. If you enjoy it, feedback is appreciated & highly encouraged and motivates me to write even more. Mistakes/errors might be here, let me know if you find any.

⋅☾ My Masterlist | Join the taglist ☽⋅

Brasov, Romania — 2023

The last thing you hear before stepping on your ear-comms is your name screamed by a very angry James Barnes.

“Agent, status report.” His voice, usually rich and silky with mirth and teasing remarks for you, is filled with desperate anger. “Agent. Status report.” Even though the strain in his voice is visible, you swallow the pain and bite on your lip, still unable to answer.

If you open your mouth, they'll hear you. If they hear you, the rest of the mission is compromised.

Barnes' voice is joined by Sam's, and your heart squeezes itself with how even the Captain seems distressed.

"Buck—hold on, wait." Sam's ragged breathing says he made out of the secret compound they had locked him in, which means your interference worked. "Y/n. I saw the file you just sent—are you still at the castle? Please tell me you're still at the castle."

"What do you mean the file? What file? And why wouldn't she be—"

"Bucky, hold on," Sam interrupts. "I'm sending you. Widow found a bug and a rat, the mission's been severely compromised. They locked me in this—fuck, I don't know, secret basement thing. She hacked their files and opened the door from the outside, but I'm not getting readings on her location anymore. Y/n, do you copy?"

I do, Captain. You wish saying the words was possible.

Outside the window, there's the noise of cars approaching and you know—the time to kill your way out of this corner they backed you in has come, and given the hole in Monica's intel, chances of you making out alive were looking grim.

I'll miss him. Usually, thoughts about his smile are pushed out of your mind by yourself in order to not dive into emotions that could potentially jeopardize your job.

Now—your job has been done. Sam, Bucky and Joaquin could continue the mission, maybe salvage it, and you were two bullet wounds in too deep to care.

"Y/n?" Ah, Bucky's voice. The cars park and you hear the sound engines being killed, and you think—this is the fuel I need. I've got one last fight in me. Say my name again, James. Please. "Y/N!"

The ear-comm is the only final thing connecting you to the boys, and with your new visitors making their way inside to look for you, it's their last hope of finding the Avengers, led by their main target, Captain America.

Too bad that standing between them and their goal, there's you.

"Y/N!" Has Bucky ever sounded like this? The fuel ignites your veins in fire, and you get up, stepping in the comm.

You close your eyes, imagine James laughing at the breakfast table, and open them to face your enemies.

_____________________________________________________________

A year and a half ago, Captain America and the White Wolf helped Stephen Strange to save Scarlet Witch from dooming their entire world and reality and, after the battle, brought back from the dead the institution of the Avengers.

Led by Sam Wilson, the group of super-heroes birthed itself from the ashes with team members who seemed much more put together and like willing participants than the first try.

The Widows reunited in a secret location for a special reunion and, in the dark of a cabin somewhere in Siberia with over five bottles of good vodka and whiskey being shared, decided together if one of them would volunteer to take the place of the deceased and iconic Natasha Romanoff.

The conversation had been long, tiring and heartbreaking for many reasons, but the majority came to the same conclusion: Romanoff's legacy mattered.

It mattered to the kids, to the little girls who would see a new group of supers on their TV trying to fight the bad and needed the reminder that even if you had no mind-bending abilities like Scarlet, you too could decide to change the world.

It mattered a lot.

Taking the position involved more than just sentimentalism, though, and after a lot of deliberation, a unanimous decision was reached on who would be the one to step up for the job.

You.

Y/n. The newest Black Widow, hired by none other than Nick Fury and "approved" by none other than Sam Wilson.

The teammates loved you upon meeting you. Sam, Joaquin, and Wanda all smiled when Nick walked in the briefing and announced he'd found the newest and last addition to the team.

(Officially, Stephen, Peter and Thor were also Avengers, but the first one mostly kept to himself since his job as a Stone Keeper took up a lot of his time and required plenty of studying, the latter could only be contacted when he decided to grace Earth with his godly presence, and Peter. Well—you'd been an advocate to Nick that the boy needed time away from insanity. Brooklyn needed him—the world and its big, ugly missions could be handled by the adults.)

All the members sitting at the table smiled, waved and introduced themselves with delight.

All except for one.

James looked at you like he'd seen a ghost, and it took weeks for whatever haunted him to leave his eyes when you shared a room.

He intrigued you.

More than that—James surprised you.

"Widow. I'm sorry I haven't been... the most welcoming teammate," James had said that to you after the first month while awkwardly standing under the threshold of the shared kitchen. "I... Sam gave me file of the Red Room. Romanoff and Belova's secret mission. I—I had no idea that program still existed." He swallowed down a visible knot. "I'm sorry. I should've—I don't know what I should have, but I'm sorry."

That had been the first surprise, but not the last.

It had also been the moment you realized escaping from the infatuation you had with him would be impossible, and that you'd have to rationalize the hell out of every interaction with him in order to keep your thoughts strictly professional.

"What on earth are you apologizing for?" You had asked.

Bucky had blinked in surprise, speechless, and you'd taken the opportunity to continue. "James, listen to me carefully." His posture straightened with your request. "The previous Widow generation who trained me were the last ones trained by him. By the Asset. And while memories of the Red Room are ones I prefer buried and forgotten, these I'll share with you gladly: All of us, new or old Widows, knew that you were one of us. You, James, survived and went through more in the hands of Hydra than any other person that's lived, and you still managed to carry out the tasks the handlers demanded out of you without their strokes of cruelty. The Asset was known for helping Widows in their lowest moments, even if that cost him punishments later on."

With each one of your words, Bucky's eyes widened more.

"I don't know what you think that we think of you, but I can assure you that's not it." Then, you took a deep breath and put on your best image of what a genuine smile looked like. "And—please. Call me Y/n? Or I might have to start calling you Wolfie around this block."

That day, you were gifted with his first smile.

It had been so kind and appreciative that it almost broke your resolve and cracked a real smile out of you, and that had also been when you noticed the danger this man posed to you.

Was it your fascination with the Soldier?

It could be.

Days were spent restlessly turning in bed, wondering if the foggy and uncertain memories you had of Widows talking so fondly and reverently of him was affecting your judgment and ability to see clearly.

James, more than just a teammate, was also more than the ghosts he carried. He didn't deserve someone projecting their childish infatuations on him over bedtime stories they'd heard about the 'soldier they never managed to break.'

You had to be professional.

It's just—it was hard.

Even harder as the group went on missions together, bonded over successes and fails (more of the first than the latter, thankfully and to Nick's utmost pleasure) and did good things together.

Saving people and erasing some of the bad from this world rushed endorphins through the body like nothing else.

Nothing you tried, no exercise or food, ever brought you as much joy as working the people who you now lived with.

Nothing, except maybe making James laugh so hard he couldn't breathe, or seeing him blush when you gave him a rare and honest compliment.

James goes from teammate to colleague, from colleague to friend, from friend to person who occasionally pops up in my dreams and makes me wake up sweating, with not enough air in my lungs and my brain spinning with images of them holding me and smiling so up close.

The last development carried the most... difficulties, for obvious reasons.

So for the past months, part of your work had included talking yourself down from things involving him.

James needed a teammate of trust. Reliable. One who he would have no doubts about, sure of the fact they were watching his six and looking after him much like he did for the group.

You were the group's six.

That meant no dreams of his kissable lips, his joyous and youthful laughter, his ocean-blue eyes that looked good enough for a swim during mornings when the sun was shining just right.

That meant remembering constantly the dangers of letting yourself feel.

Black Widows were not meant for romance.

Bucky Barnes deserved a steady girl he could take on dates, you thought. He deserved so much, and you knew it couldn't possibly come from you, so it was easy to keep your mind on track.

That went well, until Romania.

One bug and one rat—you'd discovered the holes in Monica's intel thirteen minutes before Sam had been taken and Joaquin was left alone to handle the second part of this high-stake mission, so you'd taken matters into your own hands and took care of their six for them.

The window of time was clear: You could save Sam and have no time left to save yourself, or you could give Sam a window and have enough time to let Joaquin know of your location.

You were the Avengers' blind corner, and no one was making out of Romania with Sam Wilson on their trunk.

You'd taken the plunge, and if that meant two bullet wounds and three cars of highly-trained assassins coming to get you, then so be it.

This had been a high-stake mission from the start. Freeing Sam only meant you upped the chances of your team even through the loopholes.

Whether the Queen's agents managed to terminate you or not, you had allowed the road for the Avengers to win this one.

You'd go down for that easily.

_____________________________________________________________

Sovata, Romania — 2023.

Smuggling yourself with the food-produce trucks had been easy.

Staying alive for another 24h without any help had been the tricky part.

You were hiding now in a cabin lost in a small wood in Sovata, and you knew that only because you'd found the local mail post after a little searching.

From there, you could send an anonymous e-mail to Joaquin's inbox with the secret hint for your location, and then, hope to god he catches it in his spam box and Bucky decodes it before you bleed out to death or get an infection your body can no longer fight.

From your math, it had been 37 hours since the group split.

You hoped they were okay.

You were sweating, and something told you that the bullet wound which had entered your stomach area punctured something inside of you.

The medical training engraved in your brain was only enough to access the parts hurting and tell you what needed to be addressed, but not enough to tell you if you were gonna make it.

Y/n.

Bucky's voice had sounded so desperate.

You slide further down on the floor, clutching the stolen hoodie in your fists, trying to fight the dizziness.

Agent, status report.

You missed his voice.

If you were going to die, the least you could do was allow yourself the benefit of hearing his laughter, and thinking about his smile without beating yourself up for it.

He wouldn't care.

Would they care if you died?

Had you made a difference in their lives?

You'd like to think so.

You wanted to believe that Wanda liked you, given her occasional visits to your room.

You wanted to believe Sam appreciated you—even went as far as considering you a friend. You certainly valued his heart and field expertise, and he always asked for your opinion second after Bucky's.

You wanted to believe Joaquin and Peter would miss your friendly teasing and banter, always poking at their nerdiness and young, gentle hearts. They were slightly terrified of you, but always smiled when you showed up for their game nights.

Would they look for you until they found you?

Nick Fury loved Natasha Romanoff like his own daughter, but he'd barely looked at you whenever you entered a room. It hurt your feelings a lot—you could admit that to yourself now through the delirium and the pain, but maybe you were just another pawn to him.

A disposable Widow, coming from a place that created many.

You were no Natasha, that much you knew.

Something steps in the wooden floor on the cabin's first floor and you clutch the knife tighter on your right hand.

Someone was here, and if they thought finding a dying girl was their lucky they, the surprise they might find when attacking a dying spider would blow the brains out of their mind.

Instead of stabbing someone's eye, your swimming vision finds the frame of the one person you'd been thinking about since everything went down.

"Y/n!"

Bucky is here, and oh no.

"No, no, no—Sam, I got her, it was Sovata." There are arms wrapped tight around you, and the knife on your hand is taken away by stronger fingers. "Y/n. Y/n open your eyes."

When had they closed?

"You found me," you tell him. You're happy they found you—maybe there's time. "Thanks, Bucky."

"Sam, get Nick on the line and make him get a jet. We need to get her into special care right now, she's going into shock and the—Y/n? Y/n, please keep your eyes open."

His voice is so nice that all you can do is obey.

Opening them is a mistake, though.

Bucky's the one holding you—oh! That's nice. Bucky is strong, and you don't feel so cold anymore with his arms around you. Even the metal arm that you can feel through his clothes seem warmer than you, and you realize that's probably because right now, it is.

"Y/n, please, please keep your eyes open." There's a crack in James's voice that brings a chill in your spine, and you want the sadness stored in that crack to go away. Bucky should away be happy. "Oh, god, please stop talking, I can't—you can't do this like this. Not like this."

His voice is sounding a little distant, but that's okay—Bucky's always been a good thing to ground your mind in 'cause everything about him is so bright and warm.

The crinkles on the corner of his eyes exude the warmth of a summer afternoon, his laughter is the fireplace that keeps a house happy in winter, and his eyes.

Oh, Bucky's eyes have enough in them to make a poet out of a trained assassin.

"If you weren't trying to die on my arms right now I'd make fun of you for complimenting my eyes when the whole team can listen, but you're heavy and I'm way past jokes right now." Did he just say you're heavy?

You force your eyes open—your entire body aches, and there's no gravity under you because Bucky's carrying your body bridal-style somewhere else, and the trees blur together behind his head.

"Oh, thank fuck," he exhales shakily, and the tears in his voice make you wish you had yours.

"Bucky..."

"Yeah? I'm here. What is it? Sam is coming, Y/n. We're gonna fly you to a hospital, okay? Don't strain yourself," he tells you. He's crying.

Bucky Barnes is crying because you're dying in his arms, but the last part bothers you less than the first one.

Listening to his voice break in certain words hurts almost as much as the bullets holes in you or the stab wounds you know are still open on your body.

Still. Telling him this is important. And it's no strain.

"You..." your mouth feels like sandpaper, but the words still taste sweet. "You... are... the best guy... I've ever met."

There's a broken sob above you that feels like another gunshot, but you have to finish this because it's important. "And... you're... so good."

The feeling of your tears washing your temples are the last thing you feel before darkness takes over.

Even Bucky's broken scream of your name goes unheard.

Still—you're in his arms.

It's the most peaceful sleep you've ever slid to.

Taglist pt. One ☆ @undiadeestos ; @keepingitlokiii ; @hallecarey1 ; @mardema ; @mollygetssherlockcoffee ; @fanofalltheficsx ; @justlovelifeblog ; @fallenoutofrose ; @rvgrsbrns ; @tripletstephaniescp ; @mal-edictions ; @rippl3s ; @barnesafterglow ; @vintagepigeon ; @dirtyweenerking ; @couldabeenamermaid ; @winter-soldier-sebstan ; @leyannrae ; @nerdwholikesword ; @andreead ; @ren-ni ; @pastamomma ; @fairytalebucky

Part Two ❥ ; @bvckysmoon ; @buttybarnes1917 ; @rebekahdawkins ; @tylard-blog1 ; @xbeauxny ; @redirection04 ; @thatblondebrownie ; @carrotfantasimp ; @teenagedreams-bucky ; @buckyxplumsss ; @sltwins ; ; @spiderdudetom ; @mrsbarnesinmyimagination ; @pineprincess ; @cpag7 ; @iambeeee ; @agni-l ; @sstan-hoe ; @hawsx3 ; @weirdowithnobeardo ; @hdbngsprnva ; @itsdawnashlie ; @sweetdreamsbuck ; @slutforsteve ; @itsmedramaqu33n ; @fiftyshadesofokay ; @peonyophelia ;

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[moodybluemoon]

Happy Birthday

Bucky x Reader

Oneshot

Summary: You and Bucky are on a stakeout two days before your birthday except none of the Avengers know when your birthday is and they're all desperate to find out.

Word Count: 3,657

Warnings: Reference/insinuation to sexual assault, blood, violence, swearing, angst, fluff

A/N: So, it's my birthday tomorrow (2nd Feb) and I wanted to give you all a birthday fic. Sorry to my January babies. But happy birthday for the ones I've missed, and the ones yet to come. Enjoy lovelies!

Masterlist

Birthdays were always hard. For some reason for the last five years or so you had always found yourself crying on them, and not the good kind either.

But last year, after being a recruit for Shield for only a few months, you got a call to join the Avengers on a mission or two and since then, you never looked back. They wanted to keep you and so you stayed.

They never knew you joined them on your birthday. Since the day always seems to go so terribly you’ve stopped telling people when it is. You even gave Shield a fake date and had a very, very old friend change it on all digital records that were left of you. Actually, your friend changed a few other things too, but that was to keep you safe.

The Avengers know all this and that means they know your birthday is fake also. They’ve tried to find out the date ever since they realised all your details were fake. It was the last piece of yourself you were yet to give up to them.

They liked to celebrate dates. The day people join the team, any day they reach major personal goals, birthdays. With all the bleakness they deal with, they give any excuse to create a little happiness with everyone.

You didn’t mind not telling them about your birthday, because they would celebrate it without even realising because they’ll celebrate the anniversary of you joining them which was also your birthday and will be in…two days.

You were currently on a mission with Bucky but were due back before the anniversary celebration. Over the last year, you had grown the closest to Bucky. You had grown so close to him that you actually knew you were hopelessly in love with him.

You have never said anything, fearing he wouldn’t feel the same and you would lose the only person to you that feels like they actually know you. All of you. The good, bad, and ugly.

“Hey, did I miss anything?” Bucky asks.

He walks through the door carrying a mug, a bowl, and a water bottle. He hands you the hot mug (your favourite), and sits down in the chair opposite the window, next to yours. He shuffles the chair closer, barely noticeable, but you notice.

You hide your smile behind the mug as you reply, “no, they’re just talking about sports.”

Bucky’s knee rests lightly against yours as he relaxes in his chair. You both pretend not to notice.

“Damn it. I wish they would just spill everything we need so we can get the hell out of here.”

You chuckle, “no such luck, why? You desperate to get away from me, Barnes?”

“God no, but I can think of other ways we could be spending this time than sitting here watching these assholes.”

You bite your lip and arch a brow at the man next to you at his words. He sputters on his water bottle as he also realises, “I mean- we- I- fuck.”

“Fuck? You meant the thing we could be doing is fucking?” you ask knowing he didn’t mean that but love to see him squirm.

He gives you a smouldering look. The kind of look that undresses you with his eyes as he pictures exactly what it would be like to ravage you and have you all to himself. It causes your breath to hitch and cheeks to flame.

Luckily for both of you, Bucky changes the subject, “so, Natasha asked me again earlier. She seems to think I know the answer or where to look for it.”

You glance to the house across the street, smiling, “that’s because you’re the closest to me on the team.”

“I know. She doesn’t believe me when I tell her that I don’t know when your birthday is.”

The chatter from the men you’re staking out on fills the silence. It was a comfortable silence. Every silence with Bucky has always been comfortable.

“Why don’t you tell anyone? Your birthday I mean?”

You hear the sincerity in his tone, but you shake your head.

“What?” He asks.

“I can’t tell you, Buck. It’s stupid. It makes me sound…”

“What?” He asks again.

You just shake your head again.

Bucky places his hand on your knee, “Y/N, this is me. You can tell me anything.”

You lock eyes with him. He’s doing it again. He’s trying to peer into your soul and like every other time, you’re powerless to resist the sea storm colour of his eyes.

“The family I had before you, I loved them. I would do anything for them. I would give them my last penny, my last drop of blood, my dying breath. It’s the way I am for the people I love.

“I’ve always loved getting to know people. I love listening to people tell me stories about their lives, the things they love, the things they hate and why and who they are and why. I’ve always wanted to get to the root of people. I know it’s because I’ve developed a deep curiosity over the years, but I think it also comes from a desire of wanting to be known myself…I get to know some people so that they will know me.

“Alain De Botton wrote ‘perhaps it is true that we do not really exist until there is someone there to see us existing’. And for a long time, I wanted someone to be my witness to my very existence.

“I celebrate the birthdays of the people I love so loudly. I spend hours and hours looking for a gift that tells them that I know them. That tells them I am a witness to their life and who they really are. And I do this because I love them. You have to understand that. I give them that because I love them, not because I expect gifts back.

“But my birthdays have always been quietly disappointing because when their gifts miss the mark time and time again…I don’t care about the money or the gift, not really. It could be the most expensive thing on the planet or something you made but if it misses the mark, it shows me that no one knows me. No one is witnessing my life. It makes me feel…unloved.”

You don’t look up from your lap. Your eyes are locked on Bucky’s hand on your knee, gripping you with a force that will leave a bruise. He whispers your name but still you don’t look at him.

“I don’t tell you or the others my birthday because I’m too scared to know if my new family actually loves me. I’m too scared to know if the people I would lay down my life for are actually witnessing me or…just my ghost.”

Bucky moves to the edge of his seat, his hand leaving your knee as he brings it up to your face. He tilts until you’re looking at him as he swipes at the stray tear on your cheek. He’s staring into your bare soul now and you try not to flinch away.

Bucky stares at every inch of your face. The way your hair sits, the curve of your eyebrows, your glassy eyes staring back at him and the slight parting in your lips.

“Y/N, I-“

You startle apart as music blares through the mic from the men you’re watching. Your heart races but you’re not sure if it was from the music or the confession now weighing in the air.

Neither of you say anything for a few minutes. You watch the men across the street to see them partying. It confirms they put the music on for themselves and not because they thought they were being listened to.

Bucky stands from his chair, his hand extended to you. You look from his hand and up to his face, confused.

“Dance with me.”

You smile, “what?”

Bucky takes your hand and pulls you up and away from the window. He places your hands on his shoulders as his glide to your waist. He whispers, “dance with me.”

The song drifts into the quiet space of the house. The only light in the room coming from the moon spilling in from the window. The night air swaying the curtains.

You sway with them. You smile up at Bucky as he grins down at you and you sway together. You slowly drop your hands to rest on his chest to make room for your head to find its place on Bucky’s shoulder.

You’re not sure how long you dance to the music but when a racier song comes through the mic Bucky spins you out with a giggle and reals you back into him. His arms envelope you until he does it to you again and you struggle to contain the laughter.

The third time he twirls you out, he brings you back only to dip you towards the floor. He holds you like you weigh nothing, so close your noses are touching, and you’re both breathing heavily.

You watch Bucky’s eyes flick down to your lips and back again which has you flicking down to his and back again. He presses you flush to him, your lips brush with his, a feather light touch.

A scream pierces through the moment. You scramble apart. Shots ring out in the night. One, two, three.

You don’t think, you just pull your gun and run down the stairs and out the door of the house you’re in. You know you’re breaking the rules of the mission. It was ears only. Do not engage under any circumstances. Apparently, the information was important. But not more important than a life. Not to you.

You charge through the front door (because the bad guys never expect you to bust through the front door, how dumb do you have to be?) and find none of the men in the kitchen like they were earlier.

You hear another scream come from upstairs just as Bucky comes in behind you. You turn to him, “sweep downstairs, I’m going up.”

He gives you a sharp nod and you race up the stairs as quickly as possible. You clear the rooms on the way to the bedroom.

You decide to kick the door open, giving you the few seconds of surprise. In those few seconds you see a woman tied to the bed and five men standing around her like a pack of wolves.

You don’t hesitate to shoot. One, two, three, four, click. The chamber empty and you curse yourself for not checking the gun on your way over.

You throw it at the guy’s hand just as he gets a gun out, the bullet goes wide. You run at him, grabbing the hand holding the gun to keep it pointing away from you.

He punches you with the other, your lip splitting with the force. You knee him in the balls, fighting the fuzz in your head as you bash the hand with the gun against the wall until he drops it.

Still hunched over from your hard hit to his crown jewels, you take the opportunity to strike him in the temple. He crumples to the floor, out cold.

You pick up the gun and tuck it away as you turn to help untie the woman on the bed, “you’re going to be okay. Lets just get these off and we can then get you to a hospital okay?”

You get one hand untied when Bucky shouts your name from the door way. His tone sets you on edge and has you turning quickly to him only to be met with a knife sliding effortlessly into your stomach.

The guy from earlier grabs you to steady you and twists the knife when a bang bounces off the walls of the small space. The man falls like a sack of potatoes, taking the knife with him.

The blood pours over your shaking hands. Your blood. It flows freely, your world starting to tilt until something catches you. Someone catches you.

You can’t take your eyes off the startlingly bright red covering your hands. You don’t see anything else until Bucky places you on the now empty bed.

His face hovers above you, his hands pressing down on your wound, “Bucky?”

“Hey! Y/N! You with me? I need you to get it together okay? I need you to press down on your wound for me so I can call for help, can you do that?” He asks you with an urgency that you cannot feel through the fog rolling in.

“Bucky?”

He curses, grabbing your hands to place them on your wound. His hands cover yours and he presses down harder than before. Pain shoots across your stomach, a cry ripped from your lips, heat rolling over your entire body.

The pain clears the fog for a time. Bucky asks again, “can you keep that pressure?”

You nod. You watch Bucky take his own hands away, shaking and covered in blood like yours was earlier. He fishes his phone out from a pocket, nearly dropping it. He places the phone to his ear, bringing his free hand to yours and pressing harder again.

It feels like a lifetime before the line clicks and you hear a muffled ‘hello’.

Bucky wastes no time on formalities, “Steve, get a medic here, now! Please hurry…Steve, there’s so much blood…”

Bucky fades out, the blood that’s not leaving you now roaring in your ears. You close your eyes for a moment. You’re so tired.

Bucky drops the phone and grabs your face, giving you a little shake, “hey! No, you have to keep your eyes on me, Y/N. You have to stay awake. The team, they’re coming. They’re not far away, so your stubborn ass is going to wait for them, okay?”

You smile, “I’m really tired though, Buck.”

“Okay, so lets talk about something, yeah? Tell me about something. Tell me something I don’t know.” Bucky places both his hands atop of yours now.

“I know.”

“What is it? Tell me.”

You give him another smile, “my birthday.”

Bucky looks at you in horror. For the first time since he’s known you, he doesn’t want to know the answer. He knows it’s your weird way of giving up, of saying goodbye, but he’d rather keep you and never know.

He shakes his head violently, “no, I don’t- don’t tell me. Save it for the day, you have to stay awake and tell me on the actual day, do you hear me?”

You take your hand from underneath his, bringing it up to his face. You brush a tear away, leaving a mark of your blood on his cheek instead, “Natasha was worried it had passed, that you had missed it. But she shouldn’t have worried.”

Bucky locks his eyes with you again, still shaking his head, but softer now. You say, “this is my gift to you Bucky Barnes. The last piece of me, of my soul.”

As your eyes drift shut, you tell him. The date to your real birthday.

*TWO DAYS LATER*

It was your birthday today. It was also your anniversary of the day you joined the Avengers. You were supposed to be celebrating. Instead, Bucky sits next to you in a hospital bed back at the compound.

They told him that he had stopped the bleeding enough for you to be okay. They said that they arrived just in time to save your life. But you were yet to wake up and he was yet to leave your side.

They pulled him away when they initially landed. Forced him to shower and change and Bucky also grabbed a few other things. But then he headed straight back to your side.

He hadn’t slept since that night. Every time he closes his eyes for longer than a few seconds he gets flashes of that man stabbing you. Of how he was powerless to stop it. How the blood kept coming and coming. He saw his hands coated in red and your eyes closed.

No. He knew he couldn’t sleep until he saw your eyes open again and look at him. He needed to see your eyes again.

He was resting his head on the edge of your bed when you finally stirred. Your hand squeezed his and he nearly leapt out of his seat.

He stands to see your beautiful eyes looking up at him. He rushes to you, his hand brushing your forehead, “hey sweetheart, how are you feeling?”

“Like I got stabbed and nearly died” You manage to croak out.

Bucky brings a cup of water to your lips, “well, getting stabbed and nearly dying will do that to you.”

You laugh and then wince. Bucky apologises weakly as he grins at the sound of your laughter. He always loved making you laugh and despite the slight pain he caused it only proved to him that you were alive and here with him now.

“How long was I out?”

Bucky places the cup back down and turns to another chair in the corner of the room, “for two days.”

When he turns back, he’s holding something wrapped in happy birthday gift wrap. He waits for your eyes to meet his again, “so, I think that means a ‘happy birthday’ is in order.

Your smile withers, eyes glazing over as you recall the conversation you had that night about your birthday.

Bucky walks over, placing the gift in your lap, then sits in his chair once more, “go on, open it.”

You stare at it like a bomb. And maybe in some ways it was.

Bucky pleads with you some more until you relent and pick up the gift. You pull at the ribbon wrapped around the square shape before pulling at the neat paper, “who knew Bucky Barnes was so good at wrapping presents?”

You uncover the wrapping paper to find a photo album. You look at Bucky in confusion.

He just smiles back at you, “remember how I told you that my therapist thought it was a good idea to find a way to capture the good moments in my new life? How she thought it would help me from focusing on all the bad?”

You nod, too afraid to speak.

“Well, she suggested keeping a diary, but she also wanted me to try a new hobby, so I decided to capture all my good moments using a camera which is why you saw me with it so much over the last year.”

You look back down at the photo album. Bucky says, “go ahead, look inside.”

You take a deep breath and open the album to reveal the first few pictures. The first was a side profile of a silver spoon in your mouth. The next showed you looking up at Sam with a grin, a vivid dot of blue ice cream on your nose, followed by a photo of you and Sam. Your arms wrapped around each other, smiling widely with blue around your lips.

It was the day Sam introduced you to bubblegum ice cream. You had never tried it before that day.

You flick the page to find you sitting next to Steve on the floor of the living space. Art supplies sprawled across the coffee table, both your heads bowed over an art pad, the sun burning low behind you through the window.

The next photo was of you and Steve holding up your art pads. His, a perfect depiction of the buildings you were trying to copy and yours, showing a page of rectangles and a stick dinosaur.

You flick again. A picture of you putting coins into a homeless man’s hat, the next of you smiling with him as you talk to him about his life and what you can do to help.

You flick again to find a picture of you reading on a bench in summer. Another of you laying on your back in the grass, eyes closed and music on. Another, looking up at the sky now, just your hand in the shot as you point out the clouds to Bucky, telling him what they look like to you.

Another of you and Natasha dancing at her birthday. A photo of you taking a shot of tequila with the whole team. Another of you and Wanda smearing cake in each other’s faces.

A picture of Tony giving you a piggyback. One of you trying to lift Thor’s hammer. Clint teaching you how to shoot an arrow (which took an embarrassingly long time to do).

There were more, so many more. You look up to Bucky with tears in your eyes, speechless.

He grabs your hand, “the night you told me about your birthday. It broke my heart because all I’ve ever done since the moment I met you was witness you. A bright light in all my endless darkness. I see you, Y/N. I really see you. And if we weren’t interrupted that night, I might have had the guts to tell you that most of my good moments have you in them and I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

His words sooth your heart so much that your chest hearts and you couldn’t stop the next words even if you tried, “kiss me, Bucky.”

To your delight, he never hesitates. He leans closer to you, his hands capturing your face, your lips meeting for the first time. He’s soft at first, afraid to hurt you but you run your tongue along his bottom lip, and he deepens the kiss. Your mouths open to each other, exploring until you have no air left.

When you pull away you both whisper, “I love you”, at the same time. Grinning, Bucky brings his forehead to rest on yours and that’s how you stay for some time.

[moodybluemoon]

Rising Tide

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader (Surfer AU)

Summary: A relationship built up from the ocean floor, you and Steve had lifetime worth of memories—most best friends did. But things were beginning to change, unspoken feelings creating a rift that cast a shadow over the bond you called home. Unfortunately for you, rip currents are often hardest to spot in the dark.

Word count: 7.5k

Warnings: Angst, miscommunication, drowning/near-drowning experiences, childhood friends to lovers, idiots in love <3

a/n: I had so much fun writing this one! As always, I love feedback—let me know what you think! 🥰

You can follow my library blog @pellucid-library​​ for notifications 🤍

Masterlist

~~

Foamy water lapped up around the peak of your board, fizzing out as it slid off the sides and brushed against your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Steve would probably kill you if he knew you weren’t wearing a wetsuit in the middle of winter, but what Steve didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. For the moment.

Steve liked to surf in the morning. He always begged you to come with him, rising at the crack of dawn when the new sun greeted his shaggy blonde hair in just the slightest way. Steve had been a morning person ever since he was young, but you, unfortunately, liked to surf at night. 

Weiterlesen

[moodybluemoon]

not ur groupie

Summary: you've been hooking up w/ bucky for a wild, you've tried cutting him out of your life too-- that doesn't work. It's time he knows you don't want to be that way anymore.

Pairing: famous/rockstar!bucky x reader

beta'd by the amazing!! @dumb-bich-disease

-

You’re an idiot,

Such a fucking idiot. You told yourself last time would be the last time. You even told Bucky— who laughed it off, leant down to kiss your cheek then the corner of your mouth, and told you: “Yeah. I’ll see you later, sweet cheeks”, before closing the door to your car, waving you off.

Now it’s the middle of the night. The weight on your hip and the quiet snores behind you are painstakingly obvious of your mistake. Of what an idiot you are.

All he had to send was an “I’m in town. coming to the show?” And here you were, running after him like a desperate puppy.

You were not supposed to be here. In a suite, in bed with some Rockstar douchebag. A hot douchebag at least. You blindly reach for your phone, you're sure you put on the nightstand. You move softly, making sure not to move too much. It’s dim in the room, so when your fingers finally reach the phone and the yellow tinted screen lights up your face.

You squint when the time flashes back, only two am, and past messages from Steve about plans for tomorrow since he’ll still be in town.

You met Bucky through your friend, Steve, but you never intended for it to get this way between Bucky and you. But he was a ladies man and definitely used that plus his luring looks to his advantage; Dazzling blue eyes that pierced through you like a knife, tattoos that drowned his body perfectly, a lip ring that always added a gentle shock to kisses, and jet black hair that dropped just at his earlobes. Shit

So, yeah, sometimes you'd meet with Bucky this way and other times he’d fly you out to wherever the hell he was. It was nothing exclusive and you made sure Steve knew it too.

This is insane. You need to leave. It’s late, and you were never supposed to stay over anyway. You had your phone and it was time to finally put whatever the hell this was to rest. Finally.

The arm settled around your torso while the same hand cupped your breast anchored you to the bed. A puff of air from soft lips touching the back of your neck also anchored you to the bed. The morning wood he was sporting, causing a throb between your legs was also reeling you into his submission. You’ve never had this problem with any other hookup in your life. It was always a bang and hang type situation.

You could do it, you could do it, you could do it.

You’re out of bed slowly, keeping both ears out, to make sure his breathing was still the same. You tiptoe around the hotel room: Pulling up your panties (god you wish you could punch yourself for picking out his favorite blush pink lace ones.)

“Wore this just for me? I didn’t even have to ask you to, you little slut?”

A shiver runs through your body when his words run through your mind and the sick smirk he also sported.

Your leather skirt is next, then the matching pink bra, and you pull over the white top.

Shoes, shoes, shoes. You’re standing by the foot of the bed, looking around the room for your sneakers. They were literally nowhere to be found. They can’t be in the bathroom because duh, and as you pitter through the room you pass by a round mirror hung on the wall. Gawking at how crazy you look, as you continue on you see your jacket (Bucky’s jacket, you’ve had since the first tango.) It seems the probability of you leaving with shoes is only decreasing, so you decide to book it.

This was fun while it lasted. The out-of-this-world sex, the great gifts, hiding from paparazzi and fans, and cute ‘dates’ were fun. He’s likely to have been ghosted by women many times, what's one more. So you decide to book it, and get the hell out of whatever crazy dance the two of you were doing. You’d only have to see him around Steven anyway.

The rustling of sheets stops your fingers from twisting the doorknob, “The fuck are you going, sunshine?”

That deep, raspy, sleepy voice causes such great turmoil in your stomach, he’s let loose a bunch of butterflies at the bottom of your stomach and doesn’t even know it. He’s sat, the satin sheets in a pool at his waist so his torso and tattoos are exposed in the cool air. His hair is messed up cutely, before he takes a hair tie (your hair tie) from his wrist to tie it in a low, sprouting ponytail.

“Uhhh?” you turn around, bringing your coat in both of your hands.

“Why do you have your clothes on? Get back in bed” he flops back into bed, an arm laid out where you were supposed to be. An invitation.

“I’m gonna head out, It’s late…so I should head out”

“You leavin’” he sits up again. He's tired and just wants to go back to sleep, he definitely wouldn’t mind a round or two with you before he does so.

“That’s what I just said” you remark, your arms fold over in front of your chest.

He laughs that cool, breathy laugh, it’s so arrogant and it makes you want to stab him with one of Steve’s drumsticks. “Y/n. Get the fuck back in bed.”

“You can’t just boss me around, Bucky, I’m not one of your groupies”

His smile fades away and his tongue pokes through his chin in thought. You and that fucking word.

“Didn’t mind last night,” he says smugly, his eyes glinting mischievously.

Your cheeks grow hot and you can’t even look at him right now. Him and that fucking card. You love the dynamic you have in bed, it was something you’ve only done and something you’ll only do did with him.

“That’s different!” you huff. “I’m not your groupie and--”

“Stop saying that fucking word, Christ, y/n-- it’s early, can you please for the love of god get back in bed.”

“I’m not some toy Bucky”

“Did I ever say you were? You picked up the phone, didn’t you? Got in the uber with me right after the show, right? Hell, you even tipped the guy right? I’m not forcing you to be here.”

Your gaze hangs onto his words and before you know it you're turning away without a response, holding onto your jacket tighter, as you make your way to the hotel door. You’d be walking out barefoot, but it was better than having to stay in this suffocating room any longer. He was suffocating, the lingering smell of his cologne and sex was suffocating, even the round marks on your neck were suffocating.

This was the last time.

You swing the door open, just to have it smacked close. A tatted wrist connected to a bare, slender hand, lay in your vision.

His face leans down towards your steaming face, “Am I missing something here? Why are you leaving?”

You turn your head to the left, faces only a breath away. “I have an early shift tomorrow, so I need to go.” your voice level, but quiet.

“You're lying”

“Wha--”

“Yesterday you told Steve you took the weekend off, to spend time with him”

You were stunned into silence, not really sure how to counter that.

“I-- thought that everything was going well” his fingers pinch his nose bridge, as closed in thought, before they open. “So how about we talk about whatever is bothering you like mature adults, cause you sure as hell not walking out in the middle of the night.” He tells you this calmly, yet firmly. There was no way he’d let you out of his sight in the middle of night. Who knows what creeps were loitering just outside this door.

Your whole body turns to him, and you try to push down the pitter-patter of your heart at the small act of kindness. It doesn’t show he cares, any guy would’ve done that (as if).

You brace yourself, keeping eye contact, “I don’t wanna keep going like this, I don’t want just sex, I don’t want to be just sex to you” I dont want to keep wanting something that doesn’t want me back.

He lets your words sit on his tongue for a few seconds, “And how do you know they don’t reciprocate what you’re feeling?”

How’s that for mature adults?

“Because they’ve said so. Time and time again “

You’ve seen the interviews, the question that always raises the ratings

‘Do you have a girlfriend?’

‘Do you think about settling down? Being away from the spotlight for a bit? Is that even something you’re interested in?’

The one the both of you dreaded the most, sat in front a grainy picture of you both walking on the sidewalk. In the middle of a kiss, he raised his hat to hide your lips locking, after noticing the dickhead hiding in the bushes.

And everytime he said the same answer, of course you understood he couldn’t pour his whole heart in an interview but you weren’t stupid enough to recognize when his answers were his.

‘Nah, it’s not something I’m into right now’

‘I wouldn’t mind living off this high for the rest of my life’

‘That’s no one’ always laughing off accusatory picture after picture.

At your admission he lowers his face so he’s eye leveled to you. The tips of your noses, only a breath apart. The softness in his eyes takes you by surprise.

“You should know by now that they would do anything for you. I’m barely in one spot and there’s always going to be people trying to pierce in. They don’t want to jeopardize what we have. And I love you so much��� his voice is raspy, drizzled with the sweetest honey, and his eyes flicker to yours.

You don’t even know what to say, he loves you? There was no universe where you thought you’d hear the man standing in front of you say those words.

If y/n had opened her eyes maybe she would’ve noticed the disappearance of random girls waiting backstage for Bucky, like he used to before they started hooking up. Girls in short skirts, crop tops, and piercings like him just waiting to get to his hotel room where the actual fun would begin.

Maybe you should've noticed how gradually your quick hookups became Bucky asking you to stay over, or the cuddling you’d both indulge in as his tattooed hand trailed random patterns along your back.

“I--”

He doesn’t let you finish as panic washes over his eyes.

“I love you. And it’s probably not what you meant just right now, but I’ve never done this before and I don't wanna--”

He hears the sound of your stuff touching the ground before he reales a grunt as you launch yourself at him, arms winding around his torso. He’s confused, but he’d be an idiot not to hug you back.

You pull your head from his bare chest and smile up at him, “I love you too”

“I have a massive urge to kiss you right now” he responds.

“You’ve never asked before?” you laugh.

“Isn’t that what boyfriends do?”

And you kiss. A kiss so different from the sex and the accidental kisses where your eyes would stare into eachother longingly, thinking the same thoughts of ‘what if’. You feel his palms wrap around your body, his thumb caressing the side of your breast, as he pulls you tightly into his body.

While he thinks of all the ways he can flaunt this new title and what it really means. His song rings through your head:

‘Neither of us planned it/ And for a long time I took it all for granted’

‘I had all my motives/I didn't know they wouldn't mix with your emotions

‘Used to stick together

You're my best friend, I'll love you forever/It doesn't matter if we're never rich or famous’

His soft voice mingles with the kiss and it makes the butterflies in your stomach grow. He still thinks you didn’t know the song was about you– Steve and his loose lips.

-

if you enjoyed pls don’t forget to reblog or give feedback if ur up to it <3

[moodybluemoon]

not ur groupie

Summary: you've been hooking up w/ bucky for a wild, you've tried cutting him out of your life too-- that doesn't work. It's time he knows you don't want to be that way anymore.

Pairing: famous/rockstar!bucky x reader

beta'd by the amazing!! @dumb-bich-disease

-

You’re an idiot,

Such a fucking idiot. You told yourself last time would be the last time. You even told Bucky— who laughed it off, leant down to kiss your cheek then the corner of your mouth, and told you: “Yeah. I’ll see you later, sweet cheeks”, before closing the door to your car, waving you off.

Now it’s the middle of the night. The weight on your hip and the quiet snores behind you are painstakingly obvious of your mistake. Of what an idiot you are.

All he had to send was an “I’m in town. coming to the show?” And here you were, running after him like a desperate puppy.

You were not supposed to be here. In a suite, in bed with some Rockstar douchebag. A hot douchebag at least. You blindly reach for your phone, you're sure you put on the nightstand. You move softly, making sure not to move too much. It’s dim in the room, so when your fingers finally reach the phone and the yellow tinted screen lights up your face.

You squint when the time flashes back, only two am, and past messages from Steve about plans for tomorrow since he’ll still be in town.

You met Bucky through your friend, Steve, but you never intended for it to get this way between Bucky and you. But he was a ladies man and definitely used that plus his luring looks to his advantage; Dazzling blue eyes that pierced through you like a knife, tattoos that drowned his body perfectly, a lip ring that always added a gentle shock to kisses, and jet black hair that dropped just at his earlobes. Shit

So, yeah, sometimes you'd meet with Bucky this way and other times he’d fly you out to wherever the hell he was. It was nothing exclusive and you made sure Steve knew it too.

This is insane. You need to leave. It’s late, and you were never supposed to stay over anyway. You had your phone and it was time to finally put whatever the hell this was to rest. Finally.

The arm settled around your torso while the same hand cupped your breast anchored you to the bed. A puff of air from soft lips touching the back of your neck also anchored you to the bed. The morning wood he was sporting, causing a throb between your legs was also reeling you into his submission. You’ve never had this problem with any other hookup in your life. It was always a bang and hang type situation.

You could do it, you could do it, you could do it.

You’re out of bed slowly, keeping both ears out, to make sure his breathing was still the same. You tiptoe around the hotel room: Pulling up your panties (god you wish you could punch yourself for picking out his favorite blush pink lace ones.)

“Wore this just for me? I didn’t even have to ask you to, you little slut?”

A shiver runs through your body when his words run through your mind and the sick smirk he also sported.

Your leather skirt is next, then the matching pink bra, and you pull over the white top.

Shoes, shoes, shoes. You’re standing by the foot of the bed, looking around the room for your sneakers. They were literally nowhere to be found. They can’t be in the bathroom because duh, and as you pitter through the room you pass by a round mirror hung on the wall. Gawking at how crazy you look, as you continue on you see your jacket (Bucky’s jacket, you’ve had since the first tango.) It seems the probability of you leaving with shoes is only decreasing, so you decide to book it.

This was fun while it lasted. The out-of-this-world sex, the great gifts, hiding from paparazzi and fans, and cute ‘dates’ were fun. He’s likely to have been ghosted by women many times, what's one more. So you decide to book it, and get the hell out of whatever crazy dance the two of you were doing. You’d only have to see him around Steven anyway.

The rustling of sheets stops your fingers from twisting the doorknob, “The fuck are you going, sunshine?”

That deep, raspy, sleepy voice causes such great turmoil in your stomach, he’s let loose a bunch of butterflies at the bottom of your stomach and doesn’t even know it. He’s sat, the satin sheets in a pool at his waist so his torso and tattoos are exposed in the cool air. His hair is messed up cutely, before he takes a hair tie (your hair tie) from his wrist to tie it in a low, sprouting ponytail.

“Uhhh?” you turn around, bringing your coat in both of your hands.

“Why do you have your clothes on? Get back in bed” he flops back into bed, an arm laid out where you were supposed to be. An invitation.

“I’m gonna head out, It’s late…so I should head out”

“You leavin’” he sits up again. He's tired and just wants to go back to sleep, he definitely wouldn’t mind a round or two with you before he does so.

“That’s what I just said” you remark, your arms fold over in front of your chest.

He laughs that cool, breathy laugh, it’s so arrogant and it makes you want to stab him with one of Steve’s drumsticks. “Y/n. Get the fuck back in bed.”

“You can’t just boss me around, Bucky, I’m not one of your groupies”

His smile fades away and his tongue pokes through his chin in thought. You and that fucking word.

“Didn’t mind last night,” he says smugly, his eyes glinting mischievously.

Your cheeks grow hot and you can’t even look at him right now. Him and that fucking card. You love the dynamic you have in bed, it was something you’ve only done and something you’ll only do did with him.

“That’s different!” you huff. “I’m not your groupie and--”

“Stop saying that fucking word, Christ, y/n-- it’s early, can you please for the love of god get back in bed.”

“I’m not some toy Bucky”

“Did I ever say you were? You picked up the phone, didn’t you? Got in the uber with me right after the show, right? Hell, you even tipped the guy right? I’m not forcing you to be here.”

Your gaze hangs onto his words and before you know it you're turning away without a response, holding onto your jacket tighter, as you make your way to the hotel door. You’d be walking out barefoot, but it was better than having to stay in this suffocating room any longer. He was suffocating, the lingering smell of his cologne and sex was suffocating, even the round marks on your neck were suffocating.

This was the last time.

You swing the door open, just to have it smacked close. A tatted wrist connected to a bare, slender hand, lay in your vision.

His face leans down towards your steaming face, “Am I missing something here? Why are you leaving?”

You turn your head to the left, faces only a breath away. “I have an early shift tomorrow, so I need to go.” your voice level, but quiet.

“You're lying”

“Wha--”

“Yesterday you told Steve you took the weekend off, to spend time with him”

You were stunned into silence, not really sure how to counter that.

“I-- thought that everything was going well” his fingers pinch his nose bridge, as closed in thought, before they open. “So how about we talk about whatever is bothering you like mature adults, cause you sure as hell not walking out in the middle of the night.” He tells you this calmly, yet firmly. There was no way he’d let you out of his sight in the middle of night. Who knows what creeps were loitering just outside this door.

Your whole body turns to him, and you try to push down the pitter-patter of your heart at the small act of kindness. It doesn’t show he cares, any guy would’ve done that (as if).

You brace yourself, keeping eye contact, “I don’t wanna keep going like this, I don’t want just sex, I don’t want to be just sex to you” I dont want to keep wanting something that doesn’t want me back.

He lets your words sit on his tongue for a few seconds, “And how do you know they don’t reciprocate what you’re feeling?”

How’s that for mature adults?

“Because they’ve said so. Time and time again “

You’ve seen the interviews, the question that always raises the ratings

‘Do you have a girlfriend?’

‘Do you think about settling down? Being away from the spotlight for a bit? Is that even something you’re interested in?’

The one the both of you dreaded the most, sat in front a grainy picture of you both walking on the sidewalk. In the middle of a kiss, he raised his hat to hide your lips locking, after noticing the dickhead hiding in the bushes.

And everytime he said the same answer, of course you understood he couldn’t pour his whole heart in an interview but you weren’t stupid enough to recognize when his answers were his.

‘Nah, it’s not something I’m into right now’

‘I wouldn’t mind living off this high for the rest of my life’

‘That’s no one’ always laughing off accusatory picture after picture.

At your admission he lowers his face so he’s eye leveled to you. The tips of your noses, only a breath apart. The softness in his eyes takes you by surprise.

“You should know by now that they would do anything for you. I’m barely in one spot and there’s always going to be people trying to pierce in. They don’t want to jeopardize what we have. And I love you so much” his voice is raspy, drizzled with the sweetest honey, and his eyes flicker to yours.

You don’t even know what to say, he loves you? There was no universe where you thought you’d hear the man standing in front of you say those words.

If y/n had opened her eyes maybe she would’ve noticed the disappearance of random girls waiting backstage for Bucky, like he used to before they started hooking up. Girls in short skirts, crop tops, and piercings like him just waiting to get to his hotel room where the actual fun would begin.

Maybe you should've noticed how gradually your quick hookups became Bucky asking you to stay over, or the cuddling you’d both indulge in as his tattooed hand trailed random patterns along your back.

“I--”

He doesn’t let you finish as panic washes over his eyes.

“I love you. And it’s probably not what you meant just right now, but I’ve never done this before and I don't wanna--”

He hears the sound of your stuff touching the ground before he reales a grunt as you launch yourself at him, arms winding around his torso. He’s confused, but he’d be an idiot not to hug you back.

You pull your head from his bare chest and smile up at him, “I love you too”

“I have a massive urge to kiss you right now” he responds.

“You’ve never asked before?” you laugh.

“Isn’t that what boyfriends do?”

And you kiss. A kiss so different from the sex and the accidental kisses where your eyes would stare into eachother longingly, thinking the same thoughts of ‘what if’. You feel his palms wrap around your body, his thumb caressing the side of your breast, as he pulls you tightly into his body.

While he thinks of all the ways he can flaunt this new title and what it really means. His song rings through your head:

‘Neither of us planned it/ And for a long time I took it all for granted’

‘I had all my motives/I didn't know they wouldn't mix with your emotions

‘Used to stick together

You're my best friend, I'll love you forever/It doesn't matter if we're never rich or famous’

His soft voice mingles with the kiss and it makes the butterflies in your stomach grow. He still thinks you didn’t know the song was about you– Steve and his loose lips.

-

if you enjoyed pls don’t forget to reblog or give feedback if ur up to it <3

[moodybluemoon]

Just a Little Bit

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader (enemies to lovers)

Prompt: After a particular mission brings forward the issues between yours and Bucky’s relationship, it’s decided that a bonding exercise is the best way to close the rift. There’s only two rules: no murdering each other, and you can’t say “no.” (based on this request)

Warnings: SMUT 18+ (fingering, oral m and f receiving, unprotected sex, teasing, spanking, dirty talk, cumplay, slight dub-con elements), some fluff, a tiny bit of angst, mentions of violence, mentions of injuries

A/n: Thank you so much to the lovely anon who requested this! I’m a little rusty with writing smut so I hope it isn’t horrible. I also changed the ask up just a little bit! I hope you all enjoy, and as always, my inbox, messages, requests, and taglists are open!

It felt like you were being sent to the Principal’s office.

And that was the first thing you voiced as you stepped into the small meeting room, earning a groan from all three men.

Weiterlesen

[moodybluemoon]

envy- b. barnes

pairings: bucky barnes x reader, bucky barnes x unnamed woman warnings: jealousy, insecurity, angst, i don’t love the ending about: request! y/n gets jealous when she sees Bucky talking with another girl at a bar so she leaves and goes into her car to cry as Bucky notices she was gone so goes looking for her and when he finds her back inside the bar with red puffy eyes and pink cheeks, so he tells her beautiful and positive things? a/n: i just noticed i read this wrong, so there’s a little bit of a change in the story, but i hope that’s okay @coffee-styles

the ice in your glass clinks against the crystal, the short, thin straw between your fingers twirling your drink around as you observe bucky and the beautiful girl across the bar. your bottom lip is tugged between your teeth subconsciously in thought, swallowing harshly as you recall yesterday night—really only a few hours ago.

your brows only furrow further when you do, gaining more insecurities and questions rather than the answers you were searching for when you looked back. you aren’t going to say you and bucky are anything serious—technically, you are barely something; but there have been so many indications telling you you’re heading there with him. so quantifiable and real that they crush and build you back up again with their amount and weight.

he’d kiss your forehead and hold your hand whenever he was near you, and he’d play with your hair when he talked to you, twirling a strand between a finger as his eyes flickered from your own to your lips. he’d kissed the edge of your mouth yesterday, so close to what you wanted yet so far away.

it seems even further now, watching him flirt with another woman at the bar just when he’d called you his girl last night.

you’d been at the bar for not even ten minutes yet and you already wanted to leave, no matter if the drink you just paid for after rejecting a guy’s offer was still new and cold in your tightening grasp.

did i do something? you begin to ask yourself, gaze falling from the pair of them to the floor as you begin to spiral. you go over the events of last night, but it doesn’t give you the butterflies it had when you’d thought about it earlier, when you were so sure you were right—certain that you were his and he was yours.

an unpleasant heat rushes to your face when you look up at the two of them again, bucky closer to her now, both laughing. you can’t stop looking at them, she’s so pretty, with her curved nose and high cheekbones dusted with pink. they look so good together, natural—something you’d expect. not like you and bucky, who, when you’d told your friends you were interested, they raised a worried eyebrow and told you they didn’t want you to get hurt.

you’re imagining the future you wanted with bucky with her—a woman at a bar that bucky has just met, a world where you’re pushed to the side to see the happiness that you were so sure was cradled in your hands lived by someone else. as much as it pains you, bringing a painful lump to your throat that makes you throw back your drink in a poor effort to swallow it down, it feels so much more realistic than your past hopes, something that, if shattered in the way you feared—hoped would never happen—would break you, dropping you straight down from the cliff built of the hope bucky had given you, gentle words whispered in your hair, loving squeezes of your hand. he was not just your friend. had he led you on?

the pure idea—that bucky would do that to you, that you had fallen for it like an absolute idiot—makes you choke on the last of the alcohol you’re swallowing down, and you bring a hand to your chest, blinking fast when it brings forward the tears that had already begun to ebb in your eyes. you slam a tip on the counter and grab your bag, making your way to the door, your steps a heavy contrast to the ones that had bounced you inside, so sure you’d be in that girl’s place, that you would be permanently cast in her part. you don’t catch the eyes that follow you worriedly, the attention you steal.

the cold air that hits you when you walk outside sends chills up your arms and freezes the tears that have started to trail down your cheeks, squeezing your eyes shut when you’re hugged in the freezing embrace of rejection. how fitting, you think, hastily wiping at your nose, struggling to find your keys as you walk to your car, how unfair.

you find yourself not caring enough to wrap your arms around yourself while you walk to the car, only wanting to cry because the stubborn voice in your head had been right, no matter how many times you’d assured it that it wasn’t, displaying the soft kisses bucky had peppered all over your face, showcasing the braid he’d learned to make just for you.

when you finally find your car at the edge of the parking lot, you pull open the door, slumping into the driver’s seat, fully prepared to just go home so you can curl up into your blankets and let the disappointment flow out of you in salt and water and aches.

until you notice a candy wrapper bucky had bought for you just because he’d “thought you’d like it” and you can’t help it anymore. you turn your car off again, uncaring that it’s cold inside without the heater, and your fingers tighten around your steering wheel, more tears dribbling from your chin to splatter on your blouse.

your forehead knocks against the leather of your steering wheel, fingers tightening further around it as you squeeze your eyes shut, silent cries getting stronger with each second that passes by—each thought and memory that suggested what you had thought was tangible, steady in your grip, seems more and more like bucky’s feelings hadn’t been as heavy as you thought them to be—as yours were.

you knock your head against the wheel, feeling dumb as you remember how elated you were when you thought what you’d shared was real.

as your chest heaves and your sniffles get more frequent, your cheeks feeling uncomfortably wet and your jaw beginning to drown in tears, you don’t notice the figure heading towards your car, only hearing the knock that comes at your window a short while later.

too tired to argue with random people, you sigh annoyedly, wiping at your face and snapping your neck towards your window, fiery greeting already resting on your tongue drowned when you notice the person outside is bucky, wearing a concerned look that pinches at his features further as he takes in your appearance.

you curse under your breath, subtly trying to fix yourself up with his eyes on you through the rain-pattered glass of your window.

“y/n?” he questions from outside, knocking at your door.

you sniffle, your knuckles reaching up to swipe at your nose. you can’t fix the redness of your eyes, but you hope the darkness inside your car hides it. you click a button to lower your window, a lousy attempt to give yourself a way out of this conversation if you need it, to put a wall between you and what you’d believed was both of your comeuppances for everything the world did to you.

“hey, buck, d’you need something?” you ask nonchalantly, a thin smile on your lips. bucky frowns, moving to open your door but furrows his brows when he finds it’s locked.

“i saw you walk out and now you’re crying in your car, are you okay?” bucky replies, searching your face and—of course—catching the pink tinge of your eyes.

“oh, i’m fine, it’s nothing,” you insist, “you should get back to it, you were having fun.” you motion to roll up your window, but bucky stops you by placing a hand over it.

“y/n,” he stressed, “it’s clear something’s wrong. can you please open the door?”

you shake your head, swallowing down the feelings that were beginning to creep up your throat, “i’m fine, bucky.” the tears that begin to ebb at your eyes contradict your words severely, though. “m’just tired, don’t worry about me,” you insist, forcing a smile.

bucky looks desperate as you begin to raise the window. “wait, y/n, please. please tell me what’s wrong, i just want to make it better.”

his words make you want to shut your eyes, the man did not make falling in love with him any easier.

“please?” bucky pleads, and you stop your actions, unwilling to tell him what’s wrong, but seeing no other option knowing bucky.

“i thought that… i thought you were interested… in me,” you cringe. “you’re—you’re just so good to me, and maybe i’m a complete idiot that can’t tell the difference between a friend caring about you and a romantic interest because i’m so pathetic, but—but the things you say to me and do with me are not… what friends do.” you sniff at the embarrassment, rolling your eyes at yourself.

“i thought that, and i thought you were going to…” you drift off, not wanting to say it and make shame roll over you in waves. “and then i saw you flirting with that gorgeous girl in the bar, and i realized that i am… just stupid.

“don’t get me wrong, please, all i want for you is happiness and love, i just thought… it would be with me.”

your voice cracks and you try to hold your crumbling self together, “and i’m pretty sure i just ruined everything—if there ever was anything between us, and so i’m going to let you go back and i’m going to go back home, okay?”

it’s silent on bucky’s end as you finish, only solidifying the conclusion you’d come to that you’d broken your relationship with him.

“no,” bucky whispers finally, drawing your attention to him as he suddenly shoves his arm in between the open space left from the window, unlocking your door and pulling it open.

“what?” you ask in shock, staring up at bucky as he begins to come closer.

“no,” he repeats, a warm hand wet with the lick of rain cupping your cheek, pulling you closer to him until your lips meet his. you can’t help the soft gasp that leaves you, startled hands confused as to where to go. “no, you’re not leaving, no, you didn’t ruin anything—” his words are mumbled through sloppy kisses, desperate in the movements against your lips, the way his hands clutch at you, pulling you as close as possible until he can’t anymore. “god, doll, i’m the stupid one. i’m so sorry i made you feel like that. i’m an idiot, that is—” he kisses you again, teeth knocking against each other but it’s soft and perfect and it’s bucky. it’s everything you’ve ever wanted. “that is the absolute last thing i ever want to do with you.”

your eyes are wide and still confused when bucky pulls away, his cold forehead and yours pressed together as he nudges his nose against yours, “you’re it for me, sweetheart. i’m sorry that i ever made you doubt that. i’m an idiot.”

“it’s okay,” you whisper finally, the warmth of bucky’s lips still light on your lips, and you kiss him again just because you can and he’s there and you want to. “i was an idiot, too,” you admit.

“i made you cry,” bucky stresses, pulling you closer, “i made my beautiful, beautiful girl cry.”

“it’s okay,” you repeat, a light laugh bubbling from your throat because of his defense. “i don’t care, i’m fine now, we’re fine now, i promise. it’s my fault, too.”

“i’m sorry,” bucky insists, “it’s unbelievable how out of my league you are, honey. i don’t deserve you.”

“you deserve to be loved, bucky. which means you deserve me.”

[moodybluemoon]

Nothing Fucks With My Baby | Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Hozier announced that he’s coming out with new music, so I’ve been listening to nothing but his albums and this song is just…wow.

Bucky Barnes x Female reader

Please message me with any questions, comments, concerns, or suggestions! 💜

***TW: Mention of SA***

“Nothing fucks with my baby

Nothing can get a look in on my baby

Nothing fucks with my baby

Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing.”

You felt strong arms wrap around your waist from behind and you breathed a sigh of relief. Bucky was finally back. He spun you around and kissed you hungrily, showing you just how much he’d missed you. This mission had lasted way longer than you’d hoped, and having him back felt like Christmas morning.

“Hi” he whispered as he pressed his forehead against yours. He hadn’t been one for PDA when you first got together, but now he didn’t care. He’d missed you so fucking much that he didn’t care if any of his coworkers saw him full on make out with you. You’d complained about having to go to this stupid Shield party, not wanting to spend the evening that Bucky got back with a bunch of random agents. And now, after the events that had already occurred this evening, you wished you had stayed home. “Hi” you replied, trying to steady your voice.

Your attempt was unsuccessful. He quickly pulled back and looked you in the eyes. “Hey. What’s wrong, baby?” Bucky asked, his eyes swimming in a pool of worry. You shook your head and gave a fake laugh, “Nothing, Buck. I’m just happy you’re back” you murmured. You didn’t wanna ruin the night by being honest with him. He rolled his eyes as he let out a quiet chuckle. “You’re a terrible liar. Please talk to me.” He examined your red rimmed eyes and tear stained cheeks, waiting for you to tell him what was going on.

“It’s…that cocky new guy, Walker.” You stated. Bucky continued to stare at you, waiting for you to elaborate further. A sigh escaped your lips and you continued, “he’s drunk off his ass and he kept- he kept pulling me into his lap. Grabbing me and touching me…” You watched rage building behind Bucky’s eyes as you spoke. “I kept telling him no and asking him to stop, and then he- he reached up my dress... I slapped him and he got mad. He called me a slut, said that I slept my way to the top and only got this job because I’m with you”. You finished, your shame and embarrassment dragging your eyes down to the floor. You felt dirty. Violated.

Bucky’s hands shook with anger. He brought them up to the sides of your face, gently angling your head so you’d look into his eyes. He gave you a warm, deep kiss. “I’m so sorry” he whispered when he finally pulled away. “Are you okay? Do you wanna go home? We can leave right now” You shook your head, not wanting to cause a scene or get in trouble for leaving early. He looked at you with sadness in his eyes, wanting to fix the problem in any way possible. His expression changed suddenly, eyes darkening and jaw clenching. His low, angry words almost scared you, “Where is he?” he asked.

“Uh, I don’t know. I think I saw him go out to the patio with some of the other guys” you whispered. “Buck…don’t”. His eyes were scanning the room, searching for John Walker’s face in the crowd of Shield employees. “I just wanna talk to him,” Bucky stated as he continued looking. You knew what he really meant when he said he wanted to “talk” to John Walker. You reached up and placed your hands on either side of his face, turning his attention back to you. “Bucky. You don’t do that anymore…” you asserted. “You said you don’t want to hurt anyone”.

His gaze fell downward and he was quiet for a moment. “Nothing fucks with my baby” he grumbled in a low, dark voice. Before you knew what was happening, he was gone. He disappeared into the crowd of Shield agents faster than you could follow. You let out a sigh and tears welled in your eyes again. You found a quiet corner void of drunk partygoers and took a seat, hoping Bucky would return soon.

He had been gone for about five minutes when you saw the patio doors fly open. You heard gasps from the crowd as a drunk John Walker tumbled inside and fell to the ground. Blood was pouring from his nose and his eyes were wide with fear. He quickly scrambled to his feet and ran out of the party, startling those he pushed past.

Bucky entered a few moments later, straightening his suit jacket as he scanned the room for you. His eyes fell on you and he quickly made his way through the crowd. “Hey” he muttered. You looked up at him, noticing that the angry storm clouds in his eyes had finally cleared. He squatted down in front of you, his hands resting on your knees. You noticed that his vibranium hand was lightly splattered with blood that belonged to John Walker. He saw you staring at it and removed his metal hand from your lap, wiping it on his pants. He looked ashamed. “Baby, I’m sorry,” he whispered. “That’s not me anymore. I just- no one’s allowed to treat you that way…I couldn’t let him get away with it”.

You were conflicted. Bucky had made it a point that he was done with violence, only engaging it such activities when absolutely necessary. But he’d just wanted to protect you. He’d broken his promise to himself and to you only because you’d been hurt. It was a little barbaric, but sweet. He had good intentions- to protect you, take care of you, and keep you safe. You brought a hand to his sharp jaw, lightly stroking his stubble with your thumb. “It’s okay, Buck…I’m not mad”. He let out a small sigh of relief and gave you a light kiss on the forehead. “I love you” he whispered. “Let’s get you home.”

[moodybluemoon]

quiet.

| bucky x reader | fluff |

being saved by the winter soldier

“It’s just in here. I have a dog, her name is Lucy. She’s a little big, but she is very gentle. You don’t need to be afraid of her,” Bucky explained as you followed him up the stairs to his apartment.

You gave a slight nod and his lips turned up. He walked to a red door and put the key in, turning it as the lock clicked.

You’d been saved from a Hydra testing facility that the avengers infiltrated a few weeks ago. Bucky had found you, barely alive, deep in a lab. You’d been chained to an exam table, bruised and hollow.

“It’s okay, you’re safe now. I’m going to get you out of here.” Bucky had promised.

You had been taken to Banner’s lab to recover, Bucky staying with you the entire time. It was like a private hospital, and Banner and his staff took incredible care of you. They’d promised Bucky you were in safe hands, but he didn’t want to leave you.

Even when he got up to grab something, he’d see the fear spark through your eyes as you weakly reached out to him.

You didn’t answer any of the million questions you were suffocated with, opting to silently look away from the doctors and agents. The only thing Bucky had been able to coax out of you was your name, one late night when you couldn’t fall asleep.

“Do you like books? I can read to you.”

Bucky did his best to keep you entertained, and he’d already manage to read you several books from the harry potter series. Peter Parker had insisted everyone in your generation liked them, and he’d considered them a safe bet.

Bucky read you the stories of magic and boarding school and friendship, staying by your bedside and entertaining you. After you finished each book, he convinced Banner to let you use the lab screens to watch the films.

Once you were finally recovered enough to be stable, Bucky had convinced them to let you come stay with him at his apartment in Brooklyn. Stark Tower was cold, huge, and noisy. He thought it would be much better for your recovery to be in a calmer and more cozy environment.

Bucky unlocked the door to his apartment, letting you inside first. You tensed a bit as the large golden retriever waddled up to you.

“It’s alright. Lucy, this is Y/N. She’s our new friends that’s going to be staying here. You gotta protect her too, she’s a little nervous,” Bucky spoke to his dog as if she were a human, amusing you a bit.

Lucy sniffed your hands, and you giggled softly when she licked your fingers.

Bucky had never heard you laugh, and it made his heart soften. The quiet sound was so sweet, and he wanted to be the source of your laughter, and hear it for the rest of his life. 

He gave you a short tour of his home, a small apartment in Brooklyn. It was  cozy and intimate, the warmth a stark contrast to the cold metallics of Banner’s lab where you had spent the last two weeks. 

You followed him to the second bedroom, the walls painted a pale lavender. Bucky set down your bag of clothes and personal items that Nat had provided you with Stark’s credit card. 

“I didn’t know what color you liked, but Wanda said that this color was a safe bet,” he said apologetically, and you nodded, the corners of your lips turning up slightly.

You were slightly nervous when Bucky left you to unpack and settle, but you smiled as Lucy hopped on top of the white duvet cover. You peeked your head out of the door, looking into the living room when you heard music. Bucky laid a vinyl record on the player in the corner, old music floating through the small apartment. 

“I was going to make dinner. Are you up for eating?” 

You nodded, and he lightly touched your hip as he walked by, to the open kitchen. You slipped the clothes into the closet and the drawers, setting the phone and laptop on the little desk in the room before going to join Bucky in the main part of his home. You wrapped in the cashmere blanket that was on the end of the bed, comforted by being swaddled in the soft fabric.

“I got that for you, I thought you’d like it,” Bucky smiled at you, nodding at the blanket. You sat up at the island, across from where he was slicing vegetables. You smiled back at him, and he leaned forward and held out a piece of red pepper to you. 

Your smaller fingers took it from his metal hand, biting into the sweet vegetable he gave you. 

“I thought we could watch the Deathly Hallows tonight, it’s the last one we have left.”

You agreed and ate as much of the salad he made as you could. Before Bucky could get up, you grabbed his bowl and slipped away from the island, doing the dishes for the two of you. Bucky laughed as you spun around with the music, and you reached out your hands, inviting him to dance with you. 

His arm went around your waist, and your fingers slipped in his. His chin rested on top of your head, and you felt his heartbeat thrum against your cheek as you slowly swayed to the music. He quietly sang along to the song from a 40′s artist, a peace settling over the two of you. 

The music stopped as the needle slipped to the middle of the record, and Bucky’s arm tightened around your waist. You hugged him, feeling safe and secure in his arms.

You reached into a bowl and grabbed a piece of chocolate before following him to the couch, where he was turning on your movie. You curled up on the end of the couch, draping your blanket over you. You watched the movie, Bucky’s hand resting on your ankle, his fingertips occasionally moving over your skin. 

His careful touch was welcomed, soothing your remaining nerves from being in the new environment. You jumped when the snake in the movie lunged forward, a soft gasp escaping your lips. 

“Oh, no, it’s alright, doll,” Bucky gently squeezed your ankle. You sat up and moved to lean against his side. He draped his arm over your body, keeping you safe from the magical snake in the movie. 

You dreaded going to bed, and Bucky could sense your nerves. Since you’d been rescued from Hydra, Bucky had slept a few feet from you, holding your hand. 

“Goodnight, Y/N. I’m just in the next room if you need.”

You twisted your hair between your fingers, patting Lucy’s head before crawling into bed. 

After hours of lying awake, your body finally succumbed to exhaustion. Dreams twisted into nightmares, making your heart seize and trapping the oxygen in your lungs. A cold sweat broke out all over your body, and you shot up, gasping for breath as memories of Hydra’s experiments and torture flashed through your mind.

You rubbed your eyes and held your blanket to your chest, trying to fight off the nightmares. The shadows in the corners seemed to move and grab at you like claws, the terror bubbling higher in your throat. You knew you were safe in Bucky’s apartment, but your heart couldn’t quite catch up with your mind. 

Finally, you gave up trying to calm yourself down and you threw yourself out of the bed, running quietly into Bucky’s room. 

“Bucky… Bucky, wake up, please!” you desperately gasped out, hot tears rolling down your face. 

“Y/N, I’m here, it’s okay.” He sat up and moved over on the mattress, making room.

Your voice immediately snapped him out of his sleepy daze, so unused to hearing you speak. 

“I’m sorry,” you hiccuped, and he shook his head, snuggling your body against his under the blankets.You buried your face in his chest, letting him wrap you tightly in his arms. His dog tags were cold against your skin, tears soaking through his thin t-shirt.

“No, it’s okay. Go back to sleep, doll. I promise I’m going to keep you safe.”

Metal fingers combed through your hair as his other hand rubbed your shaking back. Bucky kissed the top of your head, soothing you back to sleep. He understood your fear, only recently freed from Hydra’s nightmares himself. Having you sleeping beside him comforted him as much as you, and he didn’t mind you crawling under his covers at two am. 

Your eyes slowly adjusted to the soft light pouring through white curtains. Bucky was lying next to you, and Lucy was curled up at your feet on the end of the mattress. You were halfway on top of him, your head on his chest and one leg draped between his. His metal arm was around your waist, resting just under the hem of your shirt, tracing small shapes on your skin.

Your head felt heavy from crying the night before, and your arms were weak as you tried to push yourself to sit up. 

“You okay?”

“Fine enough,” you whispered, Lucy’s ears perking up. 

Steel eyes searched your face, and his fingers slid to the small of your back as you sat up over him.

“I love hearing your voice,” Bucky smiled up at you, and you bit your lower lip as you smiled back.

You started giggling as Lucy licked your face, and before Bucky could gently push her off of you, you wrapped your arms around the dog and kissed the side of her furry head. Bucky sat up and pet Lucy before gently cupping your jaw. You looked at him, blushing as he briefly kissed you. 

He pulled back and gauged your reaction, anxiety sweeping over him when your eyes widened.

“Y/N, I’m sorry, I just-”

You leaned forward and kissed him back, your arms wrapping around his neck as you shifted onto his lap. Passion poured through the two of you, and he held you tightly as your lips moved together.

“Don’t be sorry, kiss me again,” you whispered against his lips. He grinned before fulfilling your request, giving you exactly what you wanted. 

[moodybluemoon]

Thank you for being a friend.

Estelle Gettlemen: July 25, 1923 - July 22, 2008

Beatrice Arthur: May 13, 1922 - April 25, 2009

Eddi-Rue McClanahan: February 21, 1934 - June 3, 2010

Betty Marion White Ludden: January 17, 1922 - December 31, 2021